Three Bouts at Freddy's
by MisterVeliz
Summary: As an amateur boxer, when Michael Schmidt is challenged to compete for glory in the 'Freddy Circuit', it should be obvious that he'd accept the offer in a heartbeat. What follows isn't as obvious. TAGS: [Female-Foxy] [Alternate Universe]
1. Round One?

Michael Schmidt tried—and failed—to ignore the drowning screaming of the surrounding crowd. Not being one to particularly enjoy the limelight, he felt a swarm of butterflies form in his chest due to the sheer amount of people filling the coliseum-like room.

Though who could really blame him?

After all, his previous matches had all been equivalent to underground street fights, with maybe twenty people in the crowd at most. Then again, with 'Diva' fights that number could occasionally reach numbers nearing fifty, but that was beside the point. He had expected back when he was requested to challenge the "Freddy Circuit", that it would bring in a higher crowd population. His manager had confirmed this when he told him tonight's match would be "a little bit of an escalation" when compared to his previous ones. Well, Michael promised himself to introduce that manager to the floor via his fist after the match.

 _Right. Because over ONE-HUNDRED-THOUSAND more people is definitely a little bit of an escalation in people,_ Michael thought in irritation, glaring holes into the ring floor. Taking a steadying breath, he lifted his head to size-up his animatronic opponent for the night—the first of three guards to be fought throughout the Freddy Circuit, and easily the most _skilled_ opponent he had faced thus far. Even if she didn't exactly look like it.

Toy Chica was almost a good half-foot shorter than Michael, who stood at a decent 6'2" height. She wore pink gym shorts, boxing gloves, and a bib that read "LET'S RUMBLE" covered her disturbingly human-like chest (except for the fake feathers, mind you).

Noticing his gaze, Toy Chica removed the mouth guard from her beak and waved him over. Whatever reason the animatronic would need to protect her beak, Michael didn't know. Shaking the confusing thought from his head, he cast a quick glance up at the clock on the monitor above. Two minutes left. _I guess a little 'before fight chat' won't do any harm,_ he thought, removing a glove to take out his own mouth guard.

"Well howdy there, Newcomer!" Toy Chica exclaimed with a slight southern drawl as he hesitantly approached her corner. "What's your name?"

"Michael Schmidt. You can call me Mike."

The yellow animatronic smiled, and held out a gloved hand to him. "Mike, huh? Well, it's mighty nice to meet ya'!"

"Thanks. Your uh...boss—Mr. Freddy Fazbear? He got a hold of me after my last match and told me I had what it takes to challenge the 'Freddy Circuit'. As you can see, I accepted his offer," he said, awkwardly shaking the offered hand. Both Toy Chica's smile and any trace of cheeriness disappeared, quickly being replaced by a shocked expression. Her hand yanked away from his.

"Wait...Freddy HIMSELF asked ya' to challenge us?"

As it was spoken in almost a whisper, Mike was surprised to have heard Toy Chica's words over the crowd. Crossing his arms, he asked, "Why, is there an issue?"

Toy Chica opened her beak to speak, but froze. The smile suddenly reappeared on her face—albeit a little forced, and she shook her head. "Nope, but hey! Don't disappoint the big guy by gettin' smacked around too much tonight, Mike." She gave him a slight push towards his corner.

Mike wanted to inquire further about her odd behavior, but noticed a referee entering the ring. _Ah, well. It was probably nothing, anyway,_ he thought with a mental shrug. With one last nod in Toy Chica's direction, he began the small trek towards his designated area.

He was just getting finished replacing all of his gear when the ref', microphone in hand, began introducing the fighters.

"Ladies and gentlemen! Introducing your fighters for the niiight! In this corner...weighing in at 198 pounds, we have the animatronic from the South—Toy Chica the Chicken!" he said in a thick Boston accent, motioning a hand towards said animatronic. The room rumbled as the surrounding sea of faces cheered and bellowed in delight. Once the sound had died down to the point to where you could _kinda_ hear your own thoughts, the man brought the mic back to his mouth.

"Aaaand in this corner...weighing in at 207 pounds, we have a champion-in-the-making from the outskirts of town—Michael Schmidt!"

While it was certainly less than what had happened for Toy Chica, the crowd still roared in thunderous applause and cheering. Mike's cheeks flared up with the realization that a crowd large enough to be a small army had gathered here to watch him fight. Or to watch him get beat to a pulp. Either possibility was flattering.

Mike watched as the referee, with long strides, walked over and handed the microphone off to a man outside of the ring. He turned back towards the fighters and started counting down the remaining five seconds on his fingers. As soon as it reached zero, a bell rang out twice to signal the start of a round and Toy Chica and Mike took their place in the center.

They circled one another slowly, never taking their eyes off of the other. Mike felt the outer pressure of the crowd slowly fade as his focus concentrated on the foe ahead of him. Steadily shifting his weight between his lead (right) and rear (left) feet, he forced his muscles to stay loose so to preserve energy.

He threw a light, quick jab. With raised arms, Toy Chica blocked it and returned to a neutral stance, eyes glued to him. _I didn't expect it to be easy, but...she barely even reacted to that,_ Mike thought, frowning. The thought was forced from his head as he lunged forward, hurling his stronger left fist at her. Deflecting the hit away with her leading glove, T. Chica stepped forward and slammed him in the gut with the other. Oxygen left Mike's lungs with a pained cough.

Now, Mike had partaken in many fights before this; the exact number eluded him, but he guessed it lingered somewhere near a hundred. Even if he boxed long enough to make that unspecific number a THOUSAND matches—he'd still never get used to getting the air knocked out of him like that.

With countless cardio sessions under his belt, though, he managed to recover just in time to block two rapid jabs. Noticing an all too familiar twisting motion in Toy Chica's hips, Mike ducked and narrowly avoided an incoming hook. Thrusting his arm out, he managed to land a solid hit and T. Chica staggered back, raising her gloves in an attempt to defend herself. Not fast enough; another fist followed up and into her chin.

Thunderous applause and cheering seemed to almost _shake_ the room as the two fighters continued their battle.

Several rounds went on to be the same. Neither fighter looked to be slowing down, even as exhaustion began to settle in over the course of the match. It even seemed as if the two were perfectly evenly-matched...for a while. Eventually though, it became evident that the constant clashing finally got to Mike when right as the timer was about to run out in the fifth round—Toy Chica knocked him down. And for several seconds, the bruised and battered man stayed down. Many in the crowd thought he was done for, but were shocked to see him defiantly rise back to his feet.

The raw taste of copper, the world spinning around him, the dull aching throughout his arms, legs, torso, and head; Mike's body begged for him to give up. And with each passing second the temptation to listen grew….

 _I have to get her down quickly,_ he thought grimly; the ding of a bell signaling the start of Round 6. _This KFC reject won't even have to knock me out if I don't._

Taking a deep, but shaky breath, Mike took pained steps back into the center of the ring and got into a ready stance across from Toy Chica.

A lightning-fast punch to the face instantly shattered his guard. Staggered, he clenched his teeth and ducked as a hook _whizzed_ over his head. He blindly swung forward. Having easily blocked the hit, Toy Chica was ready when Mike sluggishly followed it with a hook. Toy Chica leaned back and his fist flew uselessly past her. The movement gained a lot of momentum, which she used to great effect. A devastating uppercut connected with Mike's chin.

Mike's head rolled back, stars temporarily filling his vision. He shook the pesky things away and lifted a glove to shield his now throbbing jaw. In hindsight, it...probably hadn't been the best choice. Toy Chica took advantage of the situation, and took another swing at him. He raised his free-hand to stop it; however, right as the blow was about to connect, she brought it back and slammed his chest with an unforeseen fist.

The man winced in pain, but managed to recover in time as Toy Chica followed her assault with a hook. Mike deflected it, and—realizing that his only remaining chance at victory was mind games, he quickly flipped the positioning of his feet.

And Toy Chica certainly hadn't expected _that._

She was thrown off enough to give Mike time to push her backward with a strong, straight punch. Continuing on, he flipped back to his usual "Southpaw" footing and jabbed at her face. The initial shock was gone though, and T. Chica easily blocked the hit.

As he was pulling his fist back, a realization hit Mike (much like Toy Chica had done before). _I'm almost completely out of viable options...I have to finish her off now. I hate to admit it, but I don't think I'll last even a minute longer._

Two actions came to mind. The first; he could muster up any and all of his remaining strength and attempt to unleash it in one monstrous punch—risky, and dumb. The second; he could just keep trying to block every one of Toy Chica's attacks like some sort of pseudo Jedi until she eventually wore herself out and Mike won by technical knockout—just plain stupid.

...with basic logic, you can probably guess which method Michael Schmidt used.

He slowly started backing away from Toy Chica. Said animatronic chicken stood with her gloves to her hips, bemused, as Mike gained several feet of distance from her; stopped, and then started sprinting back in her direction.

Mike let out a grunt of effort as he reeled his arm back and lashed out—but hit nothing but air. With such a large amount of momentum behind him, he had been unable to react in time when Toy Chica sidestepped clear out of the way. Fumbling and stumbling, Mike clumsily turned on his heel with an audible _squeak_. He was met with repeating jabs to the abdomen; each blow sending surges of pain through his body. One—two—three jabs to the gut were followed by a sturdy fist clocking him in the side of the head.

It was too much for him.

Mike was unconscious before he hit the floor. The referee stepped into the center of the ring and began a particular slow eight-count. Each vocalized number brought the volume of the crowd higher and higher several decibels, until it was a conglomerate of cheers and screams as Toy Chica was pronounced the match's victor by K.O.

* * *

"Well, that couldn't have gone _any_ worse."

Mike slumped down on the cold, stone steps, backpack set next to him and an icepack held to his jaw. Grumbling to himself, he sat silently for a few moments before quietly sighing. _Okay…yeah, that WAS a bit of an over exaggeration, but I just made a FOOL of myself in front of thousands._

Experimentally rolling his jaw a few times, Mike decided the pain was bearable on its own. He tossed the disposable icepack into a nearby dumpster.

Closing his eyes, his head tilted forward slightly with absent pondering.

Looking back on the match further, Mike eventually came to the realization that—he actually didn't do _that_ bad. Sure, he had lost the fight; and that sucked on astronomical levels. But he'd be damned if he hadn't put a pretty good beating on that animatronic chicken. That's not something a lot of people could say, now was it?

Mike let that little tidbit dwell in his mind as he rummaged through the contents of his bag. Moving around his cellphone; some clothes; a pair of boxing gloves; his fingers eventually met the cold plastic of a water bottle, which he quickly slammed down in two gulps.

Just as he was about to throw the empty container away, he heard the growing sound of footsteps. Instinctively, Mike's head shot in the direction of the noise and he cast a glare. He raised his fists defensively and noticed a tall, hooded figure approaching him.

"Chill out, slugger; I mean no harm," it said, stopping in its tracks. The figure's voice was feminine. Strangely alien-sounding, but feminine nonetheless.

Mike Schmidt squinted to make out any details in the dim light. The (he assumed) woman's hood was up, which completely obscured any and all visibility of her face. Likewise; they also had their hands stuffed in the hoodie's pockets.

"U-uhm, alright. What do you need?" Mike asked her, silently cursing himself for being unable to hide the slight tremble in his voice.

"Nothing, really. Do you mind if I have a seat?"

Taken aback by the simple question, Mike subconsciously dropped his fists back down onto his lap. He hesitated to give an answer. His instincts screamed at him, trying to warn him of danger. For all he knew this person could just be trying to lure him into a false sense of security before making him into a good ol' fashioned boxer-kebab! ...then again, Mike was fairly certain that he'd be capable of defending himself in such a situation.

Pushing down and ignoring the countless inner-voices begging him to flee, Mike cleared his throat before finally answering, "No. Uhm, not at all." He scooted aside to give her room on the staircase.

The hooded woman sat down on a step below him, silent. A pit of dread began forming in Mike's gut as she remained silent, not even bothering to look at him. It continued building up, feeling like a giant's fist was squeezing his mid-section tighter and tighter. The best comparison he could make was a dog's squeak-toy.

Narrowing his eyes at the ground, Mike's mouth was a thin line as he forced himself to focus back on the fight. _Annnyway...I guess now is probably the best time to consider what my next course of action is. Is it even worth it to start training for a rematch, or should I just head back to the minor leagues? I mean, I hate to admit it but that chicken was tough as nails. And she's only the FIRST of THREE. Motherfucking THREE..._

Lost in thought, Mike had almost completely forgotten about the odd woman until she eventually spoke up. "I don't know about you, but—I think ya' did pretty damn good earlier, Schmidt."

Mike opened his mouth to thank her, but froze, as he noticed something. "How did you know my name?"

Since her face was hidden, the fact that she had rolled her eyes was lost to him. In a slightly irritated tone, she replied, "Isn't it obvious? I was _at_ your fight. And, as I've already mentioned...you did very well." Her head turned a little so she could peer at him. "Infact, that was probably the best match I've seen in around thirty years."

"Oh. Well, er, thank you—I guess," Mike said, nervously rubbing the nape of his neck. _Dang,_ thirty _years?_ _Who is this girl?_ "Heh, I've got to admit, though, that I'm a bit curious—what's _your_ name?"

Almost the instant the question escaped his lips, Mike regretted asking it. It was the way the woman had turned away so suddenly, and now sat without even the slightest bit of visible movement. It unnerved him to the core. Had he offended this mystery person in some way?

Then, before Mike could even think to react, the woman pulled a hand from her pocket to unzip the hoodie. She threw it off, and in the same motion; stood and whirled around to face him.

It was awkward, really. For several seconds neither of them said anything, simply looking each other in the eyes. Mike slowly shook the shock from his system and stood up, retrieved his jaw from off the floor, then forced himself to speak up.

"You're...one of them. An...uhm, an animatronic—Foxy, if I remember right."

She nodded and the ends of her lips turned upward in a smirk. "That's right," she stated, then arched an eyebrow. "Is that an issue?"

Seeing as a conflict was probably the _last_ thing he wanted, you could understand Mike's reaction when he instinctively raised his hands, palms facing out toward her. "No, no."

Nodding with a seemingly blank expression, Foxy waved away all the previous nonsense in their discussion with a sweep of her hand and sat back down on the stone step. "Look...slugger, I came here to give you an offer."

Mike also took a seat down on the staircase, though intentionally taking the farthest step from her. "...what would this offer be, exactly?"

"Do you really want to beat the Freddy Circuit?"

That definitely caught his attention. Foxy couldn't help but grin at how wide his eyes got at the question. That, if anything, showed how much the man wanted this.

"...I'll take your silence as a 'yes'," she said, quietly snickering to herself. That pleased expression quickly disappeared; however, and was replaced by a serious one. "Schmidt. I've seen ya' box. You're a good fighter, and from what I can tell you have the talent to be incredible. The thing is, though...you just haven't reached your full potential. And unfortunately, there's the sad, but very realistic possibility that you...may never _reach that potential by yourself._

"...I can _help_ you reach that potential," she said, "I can train you. That is, if you want me to."

Mike frowned and sat in a contemplative silence, lightly rubbing his chin. She's right. He absolutely hated admitting it, because it could mean all his years of training and steeling himself for such a challenge was all for naught—but she was right. Would it be worth the trouble though? He had never trained with anybody before, as unsociable as he was. _Yes_ , he thought, tightly clenching his fists. _I've come too far to not take a chance at success._

With one last affirmative nod to himself, Mike finally exclaimed, "It's a deal." He was so committed to this, indeed, that—despite feeling a distinct discomfort on direct contact—he held out his right hand. Foxy simply stared at the hovering appendage. For several seconds, she sat there with what looked like a _glare,_ with which she made Mike slightly recoil. He realized, suddenly, that Foxy had been hiding her right hand from him throughout their whole conversation.

She grumbled, and then revealed her hand to him. But it wasn't a hand at all. In its place, there was a sharp, titanium hook.

Perplexed, Miked stuttered, "H-how did—"

"Don't worry about it," Foxy almost snarled. Taking a deep breath, she forced a smile back on her maw. "Just...don't worry about it." She offered her left hand. Tentatively, Mike took the extended hand and shook it. Fake fur pressed against his palm and fingers; it felt alien to him, but he tried his best to ignore the feeling.

"So...F-Foxy, when do we start?" Mike asked.

A genuine smirk replaced Foxy's previously forced expression. "Tomorrow morning, obviously."


	2. Let's Get Cracking!

With a final tug (and three times the appropriate amount of frustration), Mike eventually got the sweatshirt down over his head. Either he had a pumpkin-sized noggin, or the hole for it was too small. It's a minor issue - of course, but when you're somebody who absolutely despises mornings like Mike, and you're up before the sun, well...

Let's just say that even the smallest issues become the very bane of your existence.

Checking himself over once more in the mirror, Mike decided with a slight grunt that he looked passable enough. Sure, he wouldn't get any calls asking for him to be on the cover of some popular magazine, but looks don't matter much when you're going to be just working out.

He trudged through his open door, and with heavy, dragging steps he made his way up the basement steps. In the living room, his mother sat in the computer chair, typing away at some irrelevant social media site. "Oh? You're up rather early," she observed, bringing a coffee mug to her lips.

"Unfortunately..." Mike grumbled as he walked past her into the kitchen. A cereal box and some milk were still on the small dinner table; leftover from what he assumed was his father's breakfast. Said man still sat at the table, and upon noticing Mike enter the room, set his mug down and gave a friendly wave.

"G'morning, Michael," his father, Victor said, smirking. "I'm surprised you're awake already. Was it a nightmare?"

'Piss off' and 'fucking old man' were only a couple of the many fatigue-fueled obscenities that left Mike's mouth as he plopped down in the chair next to him. He grabbed the cereal box and began pouring himself a bowl. Spoon in hand, Mike brought the utensil down and buried it into the Honey Bunches before it suddenly occurred to him that his tasty breakfast jigsaw puzzle was still missing an important corner piece. Slowly, his head turned and he glanced expectantly over at his still chuckling father.

Said man's expression depressed until it was a barely visible grin when he handed him the milk jug and said, "Kidding. On an unrelated note, I'm sorry your mother and I couldn't make it to your match last night. With work being very hectic lately for me, and Kim having to stay here to watch your sick sister, well...we're a little busy.

Thankfully, we were able to record and watch your fight on TV sometime after you fell asleep. I've gotta say, we're very proud of how you performed."

Somehow already finished with his cereal, Mike let his spoon drop with a distant clink into the bowl. "It's...no trouble at all, and thanks, but you know I lost last night," he yawned, bringing the emptied dish over to the sink. Turning on the hot water, Mike grabbed a dish-scrubber and began the only process such a name could imply.

"One of these days you'll figure out that winning isn't everything, Michael. What matters is what you take from the experience."

"...like the many bruises I gained?"

Another burst of barely concealed laughter left Victor's mouth. "Perfect. Hit it square on the head," he said, waiting a moment before taking another tentative sip from his coffee. A comfortable silence burrowed its way into their home after that. His parents had gone off into other regions of the house, still trekking through their daily morning routines, and with Mike busy cleaning dishes in some attempt to delay the inevitable—there wasn't much to be discussed between the three.

After setting the last dish into the dishwasher, closing it and setting it to 'normal wash', Mike decided to check the time. 6:37 a.m.

With a sigh, Mike quickly dried his hands and let his elbows rest on the cool, stainless steel counter-top, a single hand supporting his chin. _As much as I'm still hesitant about this whole deal, I DID promise that I would be there...and on time._ He peered out through the window to see the slowly rising sun as it was just barely peeking over the horizon. "I should probably get heading out," Mike mumbled to himself, pushing away from the counter.

"Where are you off to this early in the morning, Michael?" Kim's voice rang out from another room.

"Coulda SWORN I told you last night!" Mike replied in a yell of his own.

"You might have! We've had a lot to deal with lately, so I wouldn't be surprised if it slipped my mind! If so, would it kill you to tell me again?"

Mike rolled his eyes and called out, "I'm going back over to the arena to start some new training! I'll only be gone a few hours, so I'll be back for lunch!" A muffled 'Okay' was the only response he got after a few seconds. Mentally shrugging, Mike quickly grabbed a granola bar to help wake himself up a bit on the road, and left through the front door of his family's humble abode.

* * *

A low whistle escaped Mike's lips as the arena came into view. Although its flashing lights were turned off due to a lack of public events on this day, the building still really knew how to catch the eye. Even a half mile away the building blocked a large portion of the sky that lay beyond, giving it an eerie, dull red corona as the Sun rose behind it.

Despite Mike Schmidt calling it the _arena_ , the FBF Grand Coliseum at one point in the past used to hold many different types of events aside from boxing; including pop concerts, other sports events, and on the rare occasion—even dramatic storytelling.

Of course...that was years ago.

As time went on, the numbers of people showing to these other events started to grow smaller and smaller compared to the Freddy Circuit. It would take an idiot to not see why—it wasn't everyday that you could go out with some family to watch some poor sod more-than-likely get the living piss beat out of him/her by an animatronic boxer. With higher numbers came more money to the higher-ups. It was obvious, really. Eventually, those other events sort of just...phased out, and the FBF became completely synonymous with boxing.

Mike opened one of the building's many glass-paned front doors and stepped inside. Ceiling lights instantly flashed to life, illuminating the previously shadowy interior. Unsurprisingly, nobody was at the main desk. From the lobby two hallways lined with doors upon doors split away and stretched the distance around the blocked off main performance room.

Following Foxy's directions from the night prior, Mike took slow, careful steps down the left hallway. While in search for a door bluntly labeled "BOXERS ONLY", he couldn't help but notice how oddly unsettling such an open, normal space could be in the right circumstances. Today, those circumstances included dimly lit, absent of activity, and just downright creepy.

I mean come on, wouldn't YOU feel at least _slightly_ unnerved in such a huge complex of a building? Where it'd be unfortunately easy for somebody—or some _thing_ —to pick a small, unlocked room and wait for some poor unsuspecting worker (or boxer) to enter their line of sight?

That thought still freshly lingering in his mind, Mike eventually found the right door after an annoyingly large amount of unmarked ones. He swallowed any notions of nervousness and forcefully rapped his knuckles against the wood.

Sounds of 'clinking', metallic footsteps could be heard from within the room, then silence. In Mike's mind, an image of a mechanical fox standing with its ear against the door formed, and believe you me—he would've definitely gotten a laugh or two from that mental image if it wasn't for the fact that it was indeed a MECHANICAL FOX. And one with a hook for a hand at that.

Mike checked both sides of the hallway for any possible spectators. Once he was sure the dimly-lit halls were vacant, he turned back toward the door and cleared his throat with enough of an exaggerated noise to catch his suspected listener's attention. "Hey, it's uh-it's me. You know, Mike?"

Not even a second passed before the door swung open, revealing the fox herself. "It's about time you showed up! You were almost-" she paused mid-speech and looked over her shoulder at something. Her lips curled up into a smirk as she looked back over at Mike. "Well scratch that, actually—you're early by a couple minutes," she said, shrugging.

"I-wait, I am?"

"Eeyup! Now come on, we can't waste any of this extra time," Foxy said, stepping inside and motioning with her hand for him to follow. After a final quick glance down the building's corridors—they were empty—Mike tentatively stepped into the room behind her, almost instantly having to shield his eyes from the harsh ceiling lights. Granted, they weren't _that_ bright, but he was still caught off guard by such a stark contrast to the hall's dingy atmosphere.

His eyes slowly adjusted to the new room's lighting, and it was certainly...more spacious than expected. Nearly half the size of his house, the gym was a decently large area, one that Mike was surprised could even belong to the arena's main building.

Many exercise machines and tools were placed evenly around the room. A small smile found its way onto Mike's lips as he let his eyes absorb his surroundings.

"Hey, over here, slugger!"

Mike's smile faded as he remembered _where_ exactly he was. Looking over, he noticed Foxy waving him over to a whiteboard on the wall. Walking over in her direction, he couldn't help but notice that said board was still blank, nothing written or drawn on it. A single brow slowly raised as he sat down on the wooden floor in front of it.

Foxy stood in front of the whiteboard, a black marker in her one hand. The hook was promptly hidden behind her waist.

"Welcome Mike, to your first day of training. Before I start let me just mention that the beginning of our four hours today will be me telling you about myself, and I'll also explain how things'll work around this hellhole," she stated, her voice dripping with loud, mocking authority. "I'll try my best not to bore you. And _you_ better try your best to pay attention. Alright?"

Mike nodded.

"Good. Another thing I should mention is that this marker-" Foxy reeled back her arm. Both shocked and impressed, Mike's lower lip raised as he watched the marker fly to the complete other side of the gym, landing unseen somewhere behind a piece of equipment. He turned and looked back at Foxy. "-is pretty pointless. Didn't even mean to write anything with it. Anyway...I should probably introduce myself. Obviously my name is Foxy, though you already knew that. Something you might've NOT known is that I used to be a boxer myself, waaaaay back in the _golden_ days," she said, leaning up against the wall.

A thought popped into Mike's head, and for the first time in what seemed like years—he was excited. And not just that type of excitement where a child's been eyeing that last slice of cake, its chocolatey goodness taunting them for every hour of the day, and after several long, pained hours their mom finally gives in and let's them eat that last piece.

No—that type of excitement where you can feel it in your _bones_ , you know?

In a split second, Mike was to his feet. "You...used to be a boxer?" he asked, subconsciously taking a step closer to her.

"Yep, though I was in my prime around 86' or 87'. Ages ago really. Why the sudden enthusiasm? You suddenly less hesitant to actually TRUST me?" Foxy asked, a smirk on her lips.

"I-uhm...yeah, to be perfectly honest. I was HOPING you had some sort of experience, but I wasn't completely certain. I do have a question though, if you don't mind me asking."

"Go ahead."

"If what you're saying is true—n-not saying you're lying, of course—but if it's true, then were these matches of yours recorded?"

Foxy scratched her head for a moment, then without even a word of warning, jogged over to a door adjacent to the still blank board and disappeared within. A minute—maybe two, passed with Mike simply just standing there, his eyes glued to the open doorway. Finally, he shrugged and followed Foxy into the room.

It was a bit cramped, to say the least. A little over thrice the size of the average closet, there wasn't much space between the two, a metal shelf, and a small coffee table. Mike found Foxy on her knees, her back to him as she sifted through the contents of a cardboard box. Mike immediately noticed her hook resting on her lap, and once again felt his curiosity piqued.

 _What the hell happened to make well...THAT, be a thing?_ Thinking better of actually saying anything about it, he opted instead for figuring out why Foxy was so interested in this box. He tilted his head to get a better look.

Before he could make out anything, Foxy closed the top flaps of the box and picked it up. "To answer your question, yes my matches were recorded, I just haven't—you know—WATCHED them in quite a while. Pretty sure I have 'em on VHS tapes somewhere around here," she said, setting that box on a shelf and grabbing another, similar box from next to it. Foxy placed it on floor next to her and opened the top flaps. "Ah-ha!" she exclaimed, and motioned for Mike to take a look. Carefully, Mike settled onto his knees about a foot away from Foxy and glanced into the box.

Inside, there was a set of around fifteen or so unlabeled tapes set neatly in a row, with the blank, white labels faced upward. Mike coughed as Foxy blew away a layer of dust that had settled inside the container over the years. "Hey slugger, mind carrying this for me for a second?"

Mike shook his head and easily lifted the box from off the floor. "That table will do," Foxy said. Mike turned to a plain, light-tinted wooden coffee table and set the box down next to a tube-television and VCR combo. Foxy picked up one of the tapes at random and held it up in her hand.

"So, Mike, since you seem interested in these, do you want to watch one?" she asked, arching a brow.

Mike Schmidt nodded vigorously. "Yes. ...if that isn't too much trouble, I mean."

"Alright, alright. Just one, though. You still need to train at least a LITTLE today," Foxy said, chuckling lightly.


	3. With Tapes, Comes Acceptance

"Oooh—oooh! Mike, mind if I...? You know what, I think I'll replay that part again."

For what seemed like the fifteenth time today—and realistically speaking, it very well could have been—Foxy pointed the VCR's remote at it and pressed the rewind button; emblazoned with faded, dual leftward arrows. Movements onscreen slowed for a second or two then dragged to a halt.

Aside from the quiet, but constant 'whirring' of the VCR as it rewound, a stagnant silence filled the room. At this point, any other theoretical occupant of the room would've groaned, complaining that "Hey, haven't we already seen this part twice now?", or "If this fight is only ten minutes long, and we've been sitting here for twice that time—WHY ARE WE STILL HERE?!"

But no, Foxy sat with the same grin glued to her vulpine face throughout the whole experience, thoroughly enjoying the temporary reliving of a past long gone. Thirteen, MAYBE fourteen years had passed since she'd last viewed these tapes. Years ago she had put forth a large amount of effort in order to try and forget what had once been—to move on. Back then, watching these old fights only brought her a sort of regretful pain. In the context of the current situation, though...Foxy found some odd sense of satisfaction in sharing her past feats with another. A sense of pride.

Mike shared Foxy's general perspective, in that he really enjoyed watching her old matches. Edging closer (almost painfully so) to the front of his seat, Mike sat with his eyes glued to the scratched surface of the screen throughout the entirety of recorded matches. Each victory accumulated by Foxy against her two opponents—animatronics modeled in some odd manner after a chicken and rabbit—only gave Mike more and more reason to abandon his initial reluctance with his and Foxy's deal.

And you could bet your great aunt Teresa's life on the existence of that reluctance.

When Foxy had first approached him on the FBF's back staircase, Mike's acceptance of her offer came only from some sliver of hope that with such bluntness in her approach, the girl knew what the hell she was doing. Which, looking back now...is quite the assumption to make on first meeting. Regardless of that insight though, Mike spent the previous night (and some of this morning's walk to the arena) pushing down and simply burying any doubt he may have had. It wasn't everyday you got a chance to make the leap from underground credit to worldwide fame—and Mike was determined to not let this chance escape his grasp.

 _Michael Theodor Schmidt will not be done in by some damned Chuck-E-Cheese knock off,_ he thought, and with that, he took the small opportunity to stretch his achingly stiff spine.

* * *

The tape began with an aerial angle overlying the ring, the picture moving diagonally at an almost unnoticeable pace. Something Mike noticed at first glance, is that not a seat in the stands appeared to be unoccupied; the crowd a blur of various skin-tones and different types and colors of clothing. Throughout the conglomeration of people were poster boards, words of encouragement (and, keeping in line with traditional sport-etiquette, discouragement) written sloppily in permanent marker. Low quality recording equipment and a vast difference in height made telling any specifics impossible.

Cheering, clapping, and other forms of encouragement were the only discernible source of audio for a time.

A sudden change in camera angles gave Mike a closer view of the two fighters and _lo and behold_ , the first of the pair was Foxy herself, equipped with a pair of light green boxing gloves. In the opposite corner, wielding a pink set of gloves, Mike saw...Toy Chica?

Well, that realization certainly brought up a peculiar question. That question being, "Do animatronics age? And if so—HOW?" With a quick glance at Foxy over his right shoulder, Mike couldn't really see any difference between film-her and her in the present.

Well, aside from the blatant fact that current Foxy...you know, had a hook. Pretty difficult to miss the mass of tungsten extending from her wrist. But from how she had reacted to him pointing it out, though, it almost obviously wasn't the result of aging.

Bringing his attention back to the match onscreen, Mike got a closer look at "Toy Chica" and could see that while she had some visual similarities to Toy Chica, mainly in color and species, the amount of DIFFERENCES visible vastly outweighed those shared aspects.

Red eyes, a higher hip-to-waist ratio, and more of a pointed beak were just some of these differences.

"Hey, uh, Foxy?"

The referenced animatronic seemed to awake from a stupor, blinking blankly at the screen a small number of times before turning to look toward Mike.. "Hmm?"

Gesturing toward the screen with a small wave of his hand, Mike asked, "Is that Toy Chica over there across from you, or another version of her?"

Foxy shook her head. "Toy Chica? Psh. Nyyyope, that's the original bitch herself—Chica."

"You know her personally?" asked Mike, his half-smile mostly concealed by the room's lack of lighting.

"Unfortunately…"

"I don't know her myself, but...heh, judging by how you're reacting...I, uh, bet."

"Yeah, for a time we animatronics were, well...forbidden from communicating with humans. So all we had to talk to were eachother."

"Oh."

It was as if grandma had knitted up a blanket of awkwardness, spread it snugly over the room's occupants, then tucked them into a bed of depression.

Thankfully, said metaphorical blanket was left in ashes as, on the film, the white noise of the crowd finally died down. The reasoning behind this became evident when a pinstripe-shirted man climbed up into the ring and brought a wireless microphone to his lips.

"Gentlemen and gals, it's time to introduce your fighta's for the niiiight!" the referee let the last word drag on for effect. The effect of course, being a temporary resurgence in the blaring roar of the fans. Seconds passed before the man finally brought the microphone back up.

Throughout the whole introduction, Mike Schmidt felt a familiar stomach-wrenching tension building up in his being. Though it was behind a thick layer of glass (and set thirty years in the past), he felt like he was standing on that rubber canvas himself.

 _DI-DING!_

And with those dual, metallic strikings of the bell—the first round began.

Foxy lunged from her turnbuckle to the center, taking her place a good two seconds before Chica even moved. _This_ was the moment where Mike first made a very striking observation.

That fox was _astoundingly_ quick.

And it was apparent from the get-go. Foxy threw the first blow. A lightning fast right jab to the face, causing Chica's guard to crumple a bit. A (not literal) hook closely followed the hit. Chica stumbled; off-balance to her left, but managed to put a good amount of breathing room between her and Foxy by backpedaling a few steps.

 _Impressive,_ Mike thought, leaning back in his chair. With his eyes still glued to the screen, he let out a long, low whistle that just barely caught the attention of Foxy.

"Pretty good start, huh?" she asked, a smirk across her lips. She waited for Mike to take his gaze off of the television before continuing. "THAT will be the first lesson I teach you—you know, once we actually get to practicing your technique, of course."

"Wait, w..." Mike's speech faltered for a split second as his eyes met the unnerving sight of Foxy's yellow eyes actually glowing through the darkness. With a firm shake of his head, he managed to push himself to ask, "Well, er, what will the first lesson be?"

"Always. Hit. First," Foxy stated with her hand upraised, a crimson finger raising with each staccato word.

That...contradicted most of what Michael had trained himself to do. Having never have had any "trainer" of sorts with boxing, most of what Mike knew or did had come with self-teaching. One of these self-taught habits was that, unless it seemed like the other fighter was stalling, then Mike usually let them swing first. It was a test of sorts. Judging by how fast he or she moved, or how they punched, Mike could generally base how he fought on that. The only exception to this habit had of course been his last match. _Probably just my nerves_ , he had reasoned.

Idly scratching at some light stubble, Mike considered his next words and spoke slowly, "Wouldn't it work better to let the opponent swing first? I'm not trying to say your strategy is ineffective or anything, but...if you were, you know, patient, couldn't you base your fighting style off of that first strike?"

"I'll give ya' that, but-" Foxy picked the remote up from underneath her chair and pushed down the rewind button. "-watching this part again, you should see that a strong, well-placed first hit—or in this case, combo—can 'shove a wrench' into the gears of your opponent's head. Knowing Chica, that part about her brain being only a couple of gears is probably be true.

"Another thing about that tactic of yours is that you can't always trust that their initial 'swing' is how they fight in general. Bringing YOUR last fight up as an example: some fighters throw the first punch to test how their opponents guard, or to see if they're absolute SNAILS when reacting."

Staying silent, Mike nodded in agreement as the film started playing normally again from the moment the match started. Mike and Foxy watched her excellent start again, and from there the match continued in the very same way, with Foxy occasionally rewinding the film to give Mike advice. There were some times where she would rewind for the sole reason of seeing Chica or Bonnie get effectively smacked to St. Louis and back, but after awhile, Mike realized that these moments were to his advantage.

 _With how skilled she is, maybe studying her techniques could be of some use,_ he thought, subconsciously scooting closer and closer to the edge of his seat.

And so it went on.

* * *

As the whirring of the VCR abruptly stopped again, and the sound of excited announcers commentating over Foxy's match once again filled the storage room, Mike heard a low, rumbling growl. Fear struck him for a few seconds before he made the embarrassing realization that instead of some monster hiding in the shadows, the noise had come from him. More specifically, his stomach.

Her attention pried away from the match onscreen, Foxy turned to Mike. "You hungry?"

"Heh, yeah. I haven't had lunch...yet..." he trailed off as something came to mind. "Do you happen to know the time?"

Foxy wore a confused expression on her vulpine features as she stood, slowly stretched the soreness accumulated from sitting in such an uncomfortable metal chair, then made toward the door. Peaking back over her shoulder once to look back at Mike with an odd expression, she turned the doorknob and let it 'creak' open a few inches. She poked her head through the small gap and looked into the large, brightly-lit gym. The digital clock hung on the wall over the exit, its digits reading...

"Oh, shiiit," Foxy mumbled, her tone an odd mix between amusement and embarrassment.

Having taken the moment to loosen a few kinks in his back, Mike paused in his movements to look at Foxy. "What?"

Fully opening the door leading into the weight-lifting area, Foxy turned back to Mike and scratched her neck. Reluctantly, she said, "Well...it's kinda already noon."

Mike's eyes widened in shock and he rushed over toward the doorway to see for himself. "Oh! I-I should probably be heading home soon, in that case..."

"Ha...sorry for taking up all our work time for the day, Mike. Tell you what, how about we count TOMORROW as the first official day, eh? We'll get down to business immediately."

"Sounds good."

"Great! I'll see ya' tomorrow then, Mike. Try not to get hit on your way home."

With a small upturning of the corners of his lips, Mike gave a weak wave over his shoulder to Foxy before walking toward the exit. No sooner had he closed the door behind him when he turned and abruptly bumped into something in the hallway. A pained 'ooof!' left Mike's lips out of habit, he backpedaled away from whatever was in the way, ramming his eyes shut in anticipation of some sort of shooting pain. Surprisingly though, what he bumped into was...soft. Hesitantly, he peaked through a barely opened eye.

He found himself looking straight into another pair of blue eyes, widened with a look of surprise that seemed to perfectly mirror his own.

Toy Chica stood silent a moment, her yellow limbs not moving an inch. When almost a minute passed between the two with no speech traded, she shakily opened her beak. "M-Mike?"

"Oh, uh, hey...Toy Chica. W-what's up?"

"What are YOU doin' HERE of all places?"

Mike made a brief evaluation of his surroundings and realized that, with how early it was, and with such a laughably sad lack of events for the day, it was pretty easy to think it strange that anybody would be here. He couldn't blame anyone if they thought he was up to mischief.

Struggling with what to say at first, several different possibilities played throughout Mike's head. The decision to lie was the first thought that came up, though with how suspicious his current situation already made him, that...probably would play out as well as it sounds.

 _Can't hurt to be honest, I guess._

"I-I'm here for some training in the gym," said Mike, struggling to keep the shakiness out of his baritone voice.

"Training...? With who?"

 _About that honesty thing..._

 _Still smart now?_

With a hidden huff, Mike ground his teeth a moment before he eventually just mentally said 'to hell with it' and blurted out, "Foxy."

"F-F-Foxy? I...I don't believe ya'," said Toy Chica, stuttering slightly in her heavy southern accent. She crossed her arms in defiance, but the nervousness clearly expressed within her still-wide eyes contrasted sharply with that statement.

Poking a thumb toward the door, Mike said, "She's still in there."

And with that, he edged past Toy Chica in the hallway, careful not to come in any physical contact with her. After passing several familiarly unmarked doors throughout the hallway, Mike took a quick glance over his shoulder to see if that chicken was still within sight. Whether she had disappeared into the gym herself, or if the light curvature of the hallway had just rendered her out of view, Mike wasn't completely certain. Then again, he didn't really give a damn about the specifics anyway. The rest of his trip toward the FBF's front entrance was actually quite relaxing, despite the still-silent atmosphere present from earlier.

 _The lights are definitely a lot brighter now,_ Mike absently observed, his eyes following the vertical trails of illumination on the ceiling above. With his gaze aimed upward, the only sign Mike got that he had finally reached the main lobby was the ceiling's sudden escalation from an average 8 feet-up to the perhaps 'too high for any practical means' 15 feet. Once he looked down into the lobby, though, Mike was thoroughly unsurprised to find the area just as empty as it had been earlier.

Now, with golden rays of sunlight piercing through the gigantic windows, and stretching several feet of the floor—the room held a certain peace within it. A stark difference from earlier, but a welcome one at that.

Despite the general feeling of uncomfortableness still lingering from his earlier encounter, a rare smile found its way onto Mike's face as he strode toward the doorway, footsteps silenced by the green carpet beneath.


	4. It's Nice to be Home

Despite the pleasant scent of lavender present throughout the entirety of the hallway, Toy Chica's face nonetheless held a sustained look of frustration. She let out a huff and reclined further against the wall. This...was quite the predicamental turn of events.

Within the confines of her machine-driven brain, two distinct, but similar voices swirled, arguing for the next move.

Maybe I should try to run along and catch up with Mikey, and...no, no he's probably long gone by now. I don't even know if he's tellin' the truth about Foxy being here.

If I check, I might be made a fool by believin' in a lie.

But then again, if I DON'T check, I have no way of knowin' if it actually IS a lie or not.

Bringing her gaze up from the green, moss-like carpet, Toy Chica subconsciously turned her head and gave a quick look down the hallway. As expected, it was vacant. Off in the distance, she heard the low rumbling 'hum' of a vacuum cleaner. Maintenance workers had finally come into clean up the performance area from the sounds of it.

Unintentionally glaring, Toy Chica took in what would be seen as insignificant details on the wall as she thought. "I've gotta stop Mikey from competing any farther..." she mumbled to nobody in particular. "Heaven knows it's never a good time when Freddy HIMSELF challenges a boxer. Evil son-of-a-gun..."

The mere thought of the bear brought shivers to her mechanical spine. She turned back toward the gym's door, the aforementioned _BOXERS ONLY_ label being the wooden surface's only differentiating feature.

 _I might as well check and see if he's bein' honest about Foxy. I don't want to out and assume he's a liar, but the chance of Foxy actually bein' here is...mighty low. A shame, too. I'd finally get the chance to meet- no! No, I've gotta stay focused on the matter at hand._

Toy Chica made up her mind and turned the metal doorknob, pushing it open with ease.

 _Even if I'm a big ol' fan of hers, business has to come first right now._

Of course, similar to if somebody had accidentally planned the construction of a playground on a minefield the day BEFORE it was to be cleared _—_ that plan went to shit on immediate contact.

On her way back toward the storage room, Foxy's sensitive ears perked up as she heard the 'clicking' of the turning doorknob behind her. Her first thought was that Mike had for some reason come back, causing a brow to raise. Fortunately for her, she spun around _just_ in time to see the flailing mass of yellow barreling toward her.

"Holyshit-!"

"Oh-my-god, oh-my-god-it's-actually-you!

With only a few milliseconds of time in which to react, Foxy, with her finely-tuned reflexes, still just _barely_ managed to sidestep out of the chicken's flight path. Said path took Toy Chica several feet past Foxy, a desperate skidding stop being the only reason she didn't collide with the white brick surface. An air conditioning system somewhere in the ceiling is the only source of sound while Foxy stood frozen in place, gathering her bearings. Toy Chica on the other-hand, stood breathing heavily and hunched over, resting hands on her knees as she recovered from her initial overreaction. A bright red hue colored her face. Cautiously, she turned to look back at Foxy with an embarrassed laugh.

"Hehe...sorry about that."

Foxy bore her teeth and stepped forward, thrusting her hook in Toy Chica's direction. "What. The. HELL. Was THAT?" she exclaimed.

"I'm sorry, F-Foxy! I guess I just tend to...to overreact when meetin' f-famous people," Toy Chica admitted, lowering her gaze to the floor to avoid Foxy's glare.

"When you meet...oh," Foxy started to say, but paused. Her expression softened as her lips curled up into a pleased smirk. The hook was once again hidden behind her hip. "Well why didn't ya' just SAY so, then? It's always nice to meet a fan."

Looking up at Foxy, Toy Chica said, "Like I said, I-it's just a bad habit of mine."

"Psh. Ah well, it's not a big deal. Anyway-" Foxy said, turning on her heel and resuming her walk toward the storage room. Peeking over her shoulder, she motioned for Toy Chica to follow with a wave of her hand. "I need to get something sorted in storage, but we can chat though."

By now, the chicken's confidence had come back by at least a fraction of its normal amount and a smile found its way onto her beak. With slow, careful steps Toy Chica trailed behind her. "I have to say—it's mighty nice to meet ya' Foxy. I'm Toy Chica, the first guard of the Freddy Circuit."

"Well duh, that's pretty obvious to me. You're pretty recognizable. There IS only one fighting arena with mechanical boxers around here, ya' know," Foxy intoned with an amused snort. "...eh, then again you definitely weren't here back in my day, so you could say I don't know YOU very well…

"Say...speaking of old, you ever meet your predecessor?"

Pausing behind Foxy to let her open the door, Toy Chica casually scratched the back of her neck and pondered. "I...can't say I have, unfortunately. I've seen pictures though."

Foxy stayed by the door to let Toy Chica pass, then closed it and left her to observe the room's contents. She stepped over to a shelf against the wall and after a minute of consideration, grabbed one of many identical cardboard boxes. After rummaging through the box, she gave a soft grunt.

Much like a bad habit, it was dropped right back onto its shelf.

 _It's mighty cramped in here,_ Toy Chica thought, grimacing slightly at the room's small size. Not to mention that a large portion of that limited space was already occupied by a table, a pair of cheap, foldable chairs set in front of said table, and the shelf in which Foxy was still preoccupied.

"...trust me: it's a GOOD thing you haven't…" Foxy eventually mumbled, dissatisfiedly sliding another box to the left with her hook.

Hands coming to a rest on her hips, Toy Chica frowned and arched a brow. "Well now, why would that be?"

"She-...ya' know what? Never mind, it's not too important. ANYWAYS, are you here to work out a bit, or," Foxy's speech faltered for a second as she chuckled softly."Or did ya' just come because you heard I'd be here?"

Toy Chica returned the laugh and said, "Heh, I did come here to work out, but...actually that second question reminds me. On my way in, I ran right into Michael Schmidt—ya' know, the challenger from last night?" In response to the question, Foxy gave an absent nod of the head but didn't turn away from the shelf. "Well, he told me a mighty interestin' tidbit about you trainin' him?"

"That'd be right! I'm planning to shape that man into an absolute powerhouse," she answered, happily picking a box up with her hand. A toothy grin plastered on her maw, Foxy turned to face Toy Chica. "Why do you ask?"

Toy Chica opened her beak to talk, but could not for the life of her get any sound to come out. For this was the moment that she'd been dreading throughout the conversation. As much as she herself didn't like Freddy, she _knew_ that what she felt didn't even come _close_ to how Foxy felt about that bear. Toy Chica was thankful for the fact that she had never had to face Freddy in the ring, but...Foxy had. Multiple times, actually. If you're well-versed in history, you can easily call them the France and Britain of their time, if you will.

And while this thought-process was running through Toy Chica's metallic cranium, Foxy just kinda stood there, perplexed as to why the chicken had froze up. She brought her hand up to Toy Chica's face and snapped a couple times. "Hellloooooo?"

Toy Chica jumped a bit, then averted her gaze to the floor. Dragging a foot absentmindedly against the floor, she asked, "Foxy...ya' do realize it was Freddy himself who challenged Michael, right?"

The ball dropped, and with it, so did any semblance of a cheerful mood.

Forcefully shoving past Toy Chica, Foxy dropped her box onto the table, not paying any mind to the loud 'clank' of its contents crashing and shifting within the cardboard confines. The metal joints in her jaw whined slightly as she clenched them, forcing herself to stay silent.

"Fox-"

"No," Foxy interrupts the chicken with a growl.

"But-"

Whirling around to bring her hook up to Toy Chica's neck, Foxy glared with her sharpened teeth bore. "NO. That...that DAMN bear is gone and done with. _Thirty years_!" she snarled, edging her face dangerously closer until there was a mere four-inch space between them. "His sorry ass got DEACTIVATED nearly _THIRTY YEARS AGO_! He is NOTHING but...but _scrap metal_ now!"

Like cheap fireworks you'd buy from some shady tent on the side of the highway, Foxy's temper exploded...then fizzled into a dark, silent nothingness. Her glare subsided into a blank stare, and her chops once again covered her teeth. Turning her tail toward Toy Chica, Foxy returned her attention to the previously abandoned container.

Although still shaken by almost having her throat ripped out, Toy Chica could see that the conversation had clearly come to an end. There was no recovering from a situation like that. So with the new found information in mind, Toy Chica tiptoed back to the Storage's door and pushed it open. Although she wanted to get out of the cramped room as fast as she could, something in her mind possessed her to turn back and give a final, weak wave to Foxy.

"I'll, uh...I'll see ya' around, Foxy."

There was no response. Then again, was she really expecting one?

* * *

It was probably the last neighborhood you would expect a murder to happen.

That...probably wasn't the most _optimistic_ way of looking at it, but it was still an important factor in trying to find a suitable location for settling down. Especially if you plan on having a family.

So that's how the Schmidts found themselves living in Kingswick Circle.

Mike always associated pleasant memories with this neighborhood. Who could really blame the man? He was born here (or in a hospital a mile away, if you wanted to be specific). He made his first friend here. Had his first birthday here. He met his first girlfriend here. He...subsequently _lost_ said girlfriend here (he wasn't so great with relationships, honestly). Mike lived here on his first day of school, and of course, on his last day of school.

So for the moment, he didn't really have any plans on moving out.

Recognizing the remnants of chalk drew on the driveway a few feet away, Mike slowed his pace down to a medium walking speed, then to a standstill. He hunched over slightly, hands on knees, to catch his breath. After running for nearly 45 minutes, Mike's lungs felt like somebody had ripped them out, threw 'em on the ground and ran them over with a monster truck not once - but TWICE.

"I've...definitely gotta...work...more on my...running…" Mike groaned in between breaths. While it was true that boxing didn't really require any running in and of itself, it still couldn't hurt to try and improve his stamina.

Once the burning sensation in his chest had—for the most part—subsided, Mike stood straight and gazed over at the sizable, alabaster building he called home. Aside from the obvious fact that it was high noon (the sun beating down on him from straight above told him that), the few lights visible inside also warned him that the other occupants of this house were up and about now. At second glance, though, a vehicle was missing from the driveway. Mike could tell that his dad had already left for work. _Early day, I guess,_ he thought, shrugging his shoulders. _He did say work was being hectic…_

Taking a small detour through the grass, he strode up the walkway into his porch. He raised a fist instinctively to knock, but remembering that it was _his_ house Mike simply opened the door and walked in.

The house's interior was definitely warmer than the chilly fall-winds outside.

"I'm hooooooome!" Mike called out, slipping out of his worn-out sneakers to set them down on the floor mat. From what he could see, the living room appeared to be completely vacant. Both the couch and dual chairs were void of people, though it was apparent to Mike that it hadn't been the case for too long. The television's screen still showed a suit-clad man standing in front of a graph full of data irrelevant to him. Mike tuned out whatever it was that the man dragged on about.

"Got a little sidetracked or something, Michael?" his mom's voice called out of nowhere, causing Mike to flinch slightly. Looking in the general direction of the sound's source, he noticed his mom peeking her head around the corner to the kitchen.

He sheepishly grinned and said, "I guess you could say that, yeah."

Following her in the kitchen, Mike noticed that his younger sister; Anne, already sat over in the small, charcoal-finished table used for lighter meals. On a plate in front of her sat a six-inch ham and cheese sub that—from the look of it, had had only two or three bites taken out of it. _She REALLY is sick,_ Mike thought, his smile lessening a few degrees from the sight. Giving a small nod to his mom heading toward the dining room, he took his usual seat to the sick girl's right and prodded her with a slight poke of his elbow. "G'morning-slash-afternoon, girlie...how are you feeling today?"

Without even lifting her deadpan stare from the plate in front of her, she said in a voice much like a frog, "Like absolute crap."

"So...better than yesterday?"

Anne's brows unfurrowed as she let out a weak laugh, which was cut short by a loud, painful sounding coughing fit. Several seconds went by as Anne continued 'hacking up her lungs' into her sweater-sleeve. Mike initial grin had disappeared completely by the time his mom reentered the kitchen, a bag of bread in her hands. "The usual, Mi—be careful, Michael!" she scolded Mike. Shifting her gaze from Mike over to Anne, she continued, "Laughing too much will only further irritate her throat."

Lightly patting the once-again silent Anne on her back, Mike mumbled a quiet 'Sorry' in response.

His mother's expression softened. "So back to my original question. You want the usual, Michael?" She asked, setting the bread on to the counter. She quickly opened the fridge, retrieved a small selection of lunch-meats and cheeses, then turned back toward the two.

"The usual would be nice, yeah."

His mom nodded and got to work preparing the sandwich for him. A comfortable silence took over the room, then.


	5. New Found Motivation

Vicious.

Savage.

Brutal.

Hungry.

All of the above could be said to describe Mike Schmidt as he tore away at the tasty foot-long sandwich in front of him. There was no putting it lightly. No prisoners. No crumb was spared as that beast of a man absolutely _devoured_ the conglomeration of bread, ham, salami, pepperoni, and various vegetables. Even eons into the future, legends would still be told about this day.

It never even stood a chance.

Satisfied with the filling meal now residing in his gut, Mike picked up the almost spotless plate and stood from his chair. He made his way to the sink on the other side of the kitchen, picked up the cleaning brush, and quickly scrubbed whatever microscopic food crumbs might remain off of the plate. Once that was finished, he set the plate into the dishwasher and sat back down into the table. The chair squeaked as he leaned back in it, a content sigh leaving his mouth. Mike hadn't had the chance to actually _eat_ a good meal in what seemed like a week now, due to the intense training he had put in for his match yesterday. Considering the fact that he still lost in spite of that…

Mike shook the thought from his head. Better to deal with it later than to let it bring him down from his current good mood—something that didn't come to him all too often nowadays.

This content mood, mixed with the sound of the television playing loudly over in the living room meant that Mike did not even notice his mother come into the kitchen.

Upon noticing her son hadn't yet reacted to her entrance, a devilish grin stretched its way across her face as an evil plan came to mind. She stood by the basement's stairway railing for a few more seconds, waiting to see what Mike would do. After about twenty seconds of him simply sitting with eyes closed, she decided to put her plan into effect and began tiptoeing across the kitchen's white-tiled floor. With every muffled footfall, she flinched slightly, and checked to make sure Mike still hadn't moved.

Finally, she found herself standing behind the still unsuspecting man. Looking closer at Mike's face, her grin faded a small degree. Even when he wasn't aware of somebody else's presence, her son still wore that same serious, jaw-clenched expression on his face.

Mike yelped in shock when—with the force of ten thousand suns—she flicked him on the forehead. Immediately recovering, he turned in his chair to glare at the woman behind him. Said woman was almost completely bent over in a hysterical fit of laughter, her back quaking with each cackle. Eyebrows eventually unfurrowing, Mike still continued to stare at his mother for a good second or two longer before rolling his eyes.

He cleared his throat to catch her attention.

As if hearing him for the first time in her life, his mom jumped a little in her hunched over state and glanced at him. "Sorry, sorry...just wanted to make sure you weren't asleep, Michael," she said, wiping some stray tears from her eyes as she stood up. Crossing around the small wooden table, Mrs. Schmidt took the seat directly opposite Mike.

Her expression returned to a simple smile as she leaned lazily onto a hand and asked, "So, Michael, you haven't told us yet. How was the first day of working-out with this new 'trainer' of yours?"

"Aside from the fact that we didn't actually work out...I'd say it went pretty smoothly."

His mother pretended to sniff the air and crinkled her nose. "For not doing anything, you sure reek."

Mike rolled his eyes and replied, "Ha! Heh. Funny." A single corner of his lips turned upwards and he continued, "Running for 45 minutes generally does that to a person, Mom."

She dismissively waved a hand. "Ah...well, why didn't you and your trainer train today, then?"

"Her and I spent the few hours we had available this morning watching some of her old boxing matches. So...eh." He shrugged his shoulders. "I guess we just lost track of time."

Whatever obvious message was to be gained from his previous statement, whatever clear message was supposed to be understood...it apparently didn't reach his mom. "This-this trainer of yours...is a girl?" she asked with raised brows. Her previous grin returned with such speed to make an olympic track runner on cocaine blush.

"Oh good grie-yes! My trainer is a girl, Mom—why so curious?"

"I'm not _that_ curious, Michael! It's just a bit rare to hear that you've actually socialized enough with somebody to, you know, set up a workout routine with them—let alone a female at that!" She leaned forward in her chair.

"It's almost as if you think your own son is asocial," Mike said with a fake pout, his voice laced with sarcasm.

"Asocial would be a vast understatement, Michael."

"Bu-"

"Anyway, speaking of things you didn't bother to mention last night," said his mother, looking a little TOO happy to be seeing her son's eyes narrow at her. "How did the two of you meet?"

Mike sat and stared with disdain at his mother for a few lingering seconds before he let out a huff. "On...on the back-staircase of the FBF Grand—about an hour or so after my loss last night," said Mike in a mumble, his blood boiling from memories of the previous night's match. "She approached me outta nowhere, and...eventually we kind of just...started talking."

"Aboooout…?"

"She told me that she thought I did pretty good against Toy Chica, but that's the kicker—ONLY 'pretty good'. When I tried to thank her, she continued and said that although I had the talent to be incredible; it's possible that I'd never reach that potential by myself. ...so she offered to help me-"

"Wait. Who is SHE to help YOU reach your full potential, Michael? I doubt she has more experience than you. Nine years is a _pretty_ long time to be boxing," his mother pointed out.

It was at that moment that Mike froze up—much like a human popsicle. Should he tell her WHO exactly it was that's going to be training him? While it was true that the animatronic fighters were practically celebrities in this city, there were some that were down-right freaked out by the idea of mechanical beings capable of talking, of FEELING—and them being based on animals really didn't help that phobia. Such a fear had become almost bizarrely _rare_ over the 40+ years the animatronics had been in the city, so who knew if his parents shared those feeling? Would they approve of him training with an animatronic fox? One with a hook for a hand, to boot?

 _No use in trying to lie to my own mom, I suppose._ Out of sheer habit he gulped, the anxiety making the action feel akin to how it would feel to swallow a clump of nails. Mouth suddenly dry, Mike asked, "Have you, uhm...ever heard of the a-animatronic—Foxy?" It took an enormous amount of willpower from him to NOT blurt that last part out.

Mrs. Schmidt didn't respond at first. Her face had an unreadable expression written on it, one that Mike hoped was not because of some sort of masked emotion. This worry disappeared once his mother's grin came back. Though something seemed a bit...OFF, about it to Mike. To anybody else, this certain smile would look to be the same one she always wore when amused, pleased, or anything of the sort. Having known her throughout his entire life though (duh), Mike could distinguish that this grin was completely void of any trace of teasing. There wasn't any forcefulness behind it, either.

It was a kid's smile.

"You're...you're being trained by FOXY? Like _Foxy the Boxer;_ Foxy?" she at some point asked, her voice a whisper.

Mike couldn't think of any comprehensible response, so he gave a small, hesitant nod of the head. A fangirlish squeal left his mother's mouth as she leaned forward onto the table with both elbows—for the second time in a matter of minutes, Mike almost fell out of his chair.

"Oh-my-GOD, Michael! I-couldn't-even-BEGIN-to-describe-how-much-of-a-fan-I-was-of-hers!" she exclaimed, the words leaving her mouth like water left a fire hose. Seemingly noticing this, she paused to take a deep breath, then continued, a bit slower, "I used to watch her matches every _week_ back when I was a little girl! Just...just forget what I said about doubting her, Michael. I can see you're in very, _very_ capable hands."

Oh how tempted Mike was to correct her with 'HAND—not hands'. He felt it wasn't the time, though.

Regardless, he put on a smile and said, "I'm...happy to hear that, Mom." He stood up from the chair and pushed it in. "Anyway, hope you don't mind, but uh, I've gotta go run myself a quick shower." Walking through the doorway to the living room, Mike went left and as he passed by the two staircases (one went up, the other down), he heard his mother's voice call out.

"WHY?" she yelled, her voice echoing slightly.

Turning on his heel, Mike Schmidt smirked to nobody in particular and replied, "BECAUSE, MOM—I APPARENTLY _REEK."_

* * *

He turned the two metal knobs to the right; the water pressure only weakened at first, but then slowed to a soft trickle, stopping soon after. Reaching an arm out of the shower, Mike blindly patted the wall a few times before finding a towel hanging on the rack. He tied the towel around his hips and opened the shower curtain. His feet met the heated tile-flooring. As he went to leave the bathroom, Mike saw a glimpse of his reflection out of his peripheral and stopped. Having forgotten to check himself _completely_ the night before, Mike stepped in front of the mirror, then took another step backward that gave himself a full-view of his upper-body and head.

His face...actually wasn't THAT bad, surprisingly. Sure, the skin beneath his right eye down to an inch above his jaw _was_ slightly purple, and a few scratches _could_ be seen criss-crossing the other cheek—but at least it didn't ache anymore. He rolled his jaw a few times to make sure of this.

Once satisfied with the inspection of his face, Mike lowered his gaze down to his torso. It definitely seemed to have beared the worst of the last night's beating, he noted. Running a hand across his chest, Mike winced slightly when his fingers brushed against one of the numerous bruises dotting it. A rare grin came to his face in spite of this. The funny thing was, even after how humiliating his loss had been...this wasn't even the worst he had looked after a match. _Remember me, world_ , he thought, with one last glance into the mirror.

"At least I don't any black eyes this time, either…" he said, lowly chuckling to himself as he left the bathroom. "Looked like frickin' Rocky Balboa last time that happened."

Mike came to the entrance area of the house. He started off walking through it at a leisurely pace, but a quick glance reminded him that the front windows' blinds were pulled up...and his current choice of fashion consisted only of a light-green towel. Knowing this, he scurried down the long flight of stairs down into the basement and closed his bedroom door behind him.

The room was still as dark as he had left it earlier. A few stray rays of sunlight still managed to penetrate though, through an inch-wide gap between the window and its curtain. Mike flipped the lightswitch on the way to his dresser and clothes bin. Discarding the towel, he quickly put on a pair of boxers and some socks. With no plans for the rest of the day, the young man settled for casual attire of jeans and a t-shirt.

Crossing the short distance to his bed, Mike slumped down onto its front end. He reached for the TV remote. Figuring he had all the time in the world to waste, he flipped the remote in the air a few times before his hand eventually fumbled and he dropped it. He stared at it on the ground in disappointment for a second, sniffed, then picked it back up. The television made a soft click as the screen instantly flashed to life; showing a suited man and woman talking from behind a large desk. Apparently he had left it on one of the city's many (we're talking four or five) news-stations the night before.

Preemptively resting his finger on the 'channel +' button, Mike sat listening to what was said, ready to switch channels—until he actually HEARD what the two were saying. He turned the volume up a couple notches and tossed the remote somewhere behind him.

"-and now, we bring you _live_ from the FBF Grand Coliseum—the owner of the Fazbear Corporation himself, Mr. Fazbear!"

The screen transitioned to the all-too-familiar steel exterior of that building, its glass-paned doors shined so vigorously that even with his rather pricey television, Mike could not see a single scratch or smudge. In front of the doors a female reporter stood alongside a shorter, in the midst of balding middle-aged man. She raised the microphone up to her mouth and flashed a toothy grin at the camera. "Thank you Tony. So, Mr. Fazbear, tell us—how has business been over the last few months since we last interviewed you?"

This seemed to be a difficult question for Mr. Fazbear, as there was a slight delay in his response. His smile was weak, and revealed several missing teeth. "Oh, things—things have been goin' great as usual since—since then...we've been bringing in crowds bigger than—well, bigger than ever." His voice was shaking as he spoke, and Mike couldn't help but notice that he had fumbled over his words more than a few times. _Can't really blame him, though. Poor guy probably has camera shyness. Well not really 'POOR guy' so to say, but whatever._

He continued. "In fact, we've been bri-bringing in crowds so large, so—so massive that we might, uh, have to rebuild the building to be even bigger!" a hesitant chuckle left the man's mouth, followed by a laugh from the reporter - the noise so fake sounding that an alien who had NO prior experience whatsoever with humans could wholeheartedly say 'Yeah I'm pretty sure she didn't actually find that funny.' Except not in English, of course.

"Ha ha, well let's hope that doesn't happen anytime soon, Mr. Fazbear. Wouldn't want those millions of fans to have to go months without another match, eh?" the reporter asked, giving a quick glance to the camera before turning back to Mr. Fazbear.

"No, no that wouldn't be too good..."

Whatever was said over the next few minutes ran together into a mish-mashed soup of clumped-up sentences as Mike tuned out the audio, instead leaning closer to the screen to focus more on the timid-looking Mr. Fazbear. His stature alone said it all. This man really did NOT want to be on camera. _Something's off about his voice, though..._

"While it definitely SOUNDS like the voice I heard on the phone, there's just...I don't know—SOMETHING different about the way he talks..." he pandered to himself, scratching the ever-growing stubble on his face. While trying to remember the exact wording of what was said over the phone, the mention of Mike's name by one of the two on screen made him freeze. Desperately, he patted the area around him on his bed in search of the remote. Once he didn't find it after a second or two of searching, he let out a grunt, then threw himself backwards on the queen-sized mattress.

There was a slight fumbling and tossing of pillows and blanket as Mike felt around for the device's smooth, plastic casing. His fingers soon wrapped around the remote's exterior, and he thrust it toward the TV. The figures on screen came to a complete halt. Mike lifted his thumb off of the pause button. _Technically won't be_ live _television anymore,_ he thought with a shrug. _Ah, to hell with it! I'm curious now._

Wasting no time, Mike quickly rewinded the interview to a few minutes back. The two on-screen didn't appear to have moved much in their stance, if at all during the duration of their show.

"-does it feel to _own_ something like this? To be behind one of the giants of entertainment in..."

The amount of interest Mike had in whatever the topic of discussion was...quickly depleting. Regardless, he straightened his back and did his best to pay attention. The reporter spent the next few minutes asking rather mundane questions, and the owner; Mr. Fazbear, returned the favor with stuttery, equally mundane answers. At some point, the topic of stocks was brought up and for a second or two, Mike considered just trying to fast-forward until the mention of his name. Such thought was quickly dropped when the topic of conversation shifted.

"...past that, how do you feel about some of the more recent matches, sir? Do you think they've been pretty fair fights? Any that stood out to you?" the female asked, the microphone once again held up to her mouth.

Mike threw himself to his feet and quickly approached the television, leaning into his palms resting on top of the entertainment center.

"Now that's, uh...that's a bit of a loaded question," Mr. Fazbear began, a nervous chuckle leaving his mouth. "I think _all_ of the m—matches held at the FBF are, you know, fair...now about any of the fighters standing out, _that's_ a slightly different story."

"Fair enough-"

"N—not at any fault of the...uh, of the fighters, of course. I'm sure some of the people watching this understand when I say t—that the memory leaves with old age," said Mr. Fazbear, his eyes darting from the camera, to the reporter, then back to the camera again.

"Let's see...the ones I...I _think_ I remember are, uh there—there was Rodriguez a few weeks ago...and a couple weeks after that Mr. Matthews fought…"

With each name muttered, the rate at which Mike's heart beat incrementally increased.

"...and in mid-November, there was Ms. Clark, I uh, I think, and...after that…"

 _Come on, I know I heard my name in here somewhere…! Just get to the point!_

"-and of course, there was last night's match b—between Mr. Schmidt and Toy Chica," said Mr. Fazbear, smiling again.

"And speaking of yesterday, tell us—what was your opinion on the fight?" the reporter asked, her eyes focusing. It seemed she hadn't had much interest in what the business' owner had been saying before.

"Well what's—what's so _interesting_ about that match is that I, uh, I actually contacted Mr. Mike Schmidt to come and challenge the circuit after having watched some of his other fights." The man paused to wipe under his nose a bit, then cleared his throat. He shook his head solemnly as he continued, "Talented boy—I'm...I'm rather disappointed he lost how he did last night. Though unfortunately I can't say I'm at all s—surprised, what with him having gone against Toy Chica and all…"

With a silent press of a button, the image of the middle-aged corporation owner and the dolled-up reporter froze on-screen. Even when it was unmoving Mike could have seen the anxiety rippled through Mr. Fazbear's scrunched up face.

That is if he was even looking at the screen.

Staring blankly at the remote still held aloft in the television's direction, Mike sat silent. Several thoughts were swarming through the young man's close-shaven head. And not a single one good.

 _Disappointed?_

He can't say he's at all surprised?

He's not surprised I lost.

...so he expected it, then?

So he just used me as a puppet to...to entertain some crowd.

Mike's brow furrowed, his hand slowly, subconsciously clenching the held remote. It wasn't until the plastic casing crack in his grasp did Mike snap out of his thoughts. His eyes narrowed at the little device in his hand. Two small cracks were visible, running vertically up both of its sides. He shut the TV off and set the remote control to the left of it.

Slumping back down on to the bed's edge, Mike clenched the denim of his jeans in his hands and shut his eyes.

"I'll...I will show him. Whether I need Foxy's help or not I'm still not sure of, but...I'll show him. I'll show them all."

* * *

A russet fur-covered hand gripping the wall, she peaked around the corner of the hallway. Through the glass, she could see the back of a well-dressed woman, a microphone held up to the other person; a man.

 _So he's being interviewed again,_ Foxy thought, retreating her head back around the corner. She tapped the metallic curvature of her hook on her chin as she turned toward the other end of the corridor. It was an exact mirror of the one that held the "Work-Out Room", curving to the left rather than the right. No exercising room was only one of the reasons she rarely traveled down this hall.

With one last glance at Mr. Fazbear around the corner, Foxy hesitantly turned and started walking down the pathway.

The OTHER reason for her not usually taking this hall is, because despite what the appearance may tell you, the two corridors wrapping around the main performance area aren't _actually_ connected. The left hallway (relative to the building's entrance, of course) lead to a harmless, mundane janitor's closet. Though with a building as gigantic as the FBF Grand Coliseum, such a closet was, in reality; actually a pretty sizable room in and of itself. Foxy had seen it herself.

What she had not seen, though, was what was behind the door at the end of the right hallway.

Mr. Fazbear himself had forbidden her from trying to get past that door, and since it was by his grace that she was being allowed to stay, to LIVE in the FBF Grand Coliseum—she usually listened to him. Of course, there's a big USUALLY in that statement.

And anytime Foxy would sneak away, whether it was in the middle of the night, or like now—when Mr. Fazbear was busy with some other task—she would find the door staunchly locked.

After several minutes of passing by unmarked and sometimes blandly marked doors on the outer walls, Foxy found herself at the hallway's end. There wasn't much to distinguish this door from the others. Aside from the obvious 'ADMINISTRATION ONLY' sign plastered onto the door's surface, the wood's green color had also faded with time; apparently the staff had neglected to repaint this door at any point.

Foxy stopped a mere foot away from the door, and glanced over her shoulder to see if anybody was following her or worse—if Mr. Fazbear had seen her. Behind her, there was...nobody. Relief filled Foxy as she turned back toward the door and tentatively lifted a sneaker-covered foot to step closer to it. Then brought it back down.

Closing her eyes, she took a deep, steadying breath. After holding the breath in for a brief couple of seconds, she let it out, reopened her eyes and took another step toward the door.

The door was only a couple inches away now, so Foxy barely had to lift her hand to reach the doorknob. She turned it, and as expected the damn thing was locked. A few more tries later, she released her fingers from their grip around the cold, steel of the doorknob. Foxy let out a quiet sigh as her shoulders slumped.

Curiosity was going to kill her one of these days.

Casting another quick glance over her shoulder, Foxy considered turning and heading back toward the lobby. With the door being as locked as ever, there wasn't much a point in her staying longer than necessary. Just as she was about to turn around, a thought popped into her head.

Slowly, hesitantly, Foxy leaned herself as close as she could get to the door and brought her sensitive ears up to its surface. Shivers ran down her mechanical spine when she heard murmuring.

Quiet...but angry, indistinguishable murmuring.


	6. Paranoia, and a Door

The sounds of wet, sloshy impacts on carpet filled the expectedly empty lobby. Muttering apologies to unseen janitorial staff while also cursing the name of whatever deity watched over him—laughing in glee, seemingly; Mike Schmidt stomped the mud and grime from the bottom of his now soaked sneakers. Who knew it was supposed to _rain_ in _late_ _November?_ Certainly not him.

 _Maybe leaving the house over forty minutes early was not the greatest idea, you dumbass,_ Mike thought, berating himself. _You would've avoided the rain if you hadn't. And you know—just showing up everyday would have proved to the fox that you cared._

Even with his hoodie on, the rain froze him to the bone.

With a shivering huff, he lifted both hoodie and t-shirt over his head and dropped them them—and his bag—in a sopping mess on the floor. Mike felt the warm air brush up against his bare skin not even a second later. Pulling his arms closer to his chest, he shivered a few more times before the warmth of the arena's interior finally overtook the frigid rain. "Thank the heavens for automatic heating," he said, grinning to himself. Said smile disappeared only seconds later when he turned back toward the entrance he had come in from. Heavy rain continued to pound the doors and windows; a constant sound still somewhat audible within the building. The outpour showed no signs of stopping anytime soon.

Mike shook his head at the sight. "I really should've driven…" he mumbled, running a hand through his hair. He knelt down next to his bag, unzipped the thing, then quickly sifted through its contents. Next to his boxing gloves and under a spare set of clothing, Mike found his cellphone and pulled it out.

There were only three or four contacts registered in his phone, so it took next to no time at all to find his Mom's number and select it. After sending a brief request for her to pick him up later, Mike exchanged his cellphone for the extra t-shirt he had packed earlier. His shorts had been mostly spared from the rain.

A slight grimace lining his face, Mike slipped the t-shirt over his head and shoulders. There was a bit of disappointment in already having to put his "back-up shirt" on—it broke what used to be his exercise routine; he would workout for the few hours he had available, take a quick shower in the vacant (thank GOD) locker rooms, then switch into whatever pair of shorts and a shirt he had packed. If something like that in his life could be changed—something set in stone after nine years of constant, constant, _constant_ practice—what else could be?

The soaked clothing was thrown into his bag. Mike cast a glance around the lobby, his eyes passing over several objects until they came to a coat rack in the corner. "Bingo!" exclaimed Mike, dragging the metal object over to a vent. He hung the bag up by its straps and brushed his hands together.

Turning back toward the rest of the room, whatever satisfaction he had in himself was quickly replaced by the same uneasy feeling he had had the day before. In fact, he was almost standing in the same spot as yesterday.

He couldn't really help the eerie atmosphere this place seemed to give him, no matter how much he tried to shake it off as him just being paranoid. Having gotten accustomed to the rain at this point, the sound of it had faded from his mind.

The building was silent.

In his ears, he heard the constant 'thumping' of his rapidly beating heart, the low sound of his breathing becoming more shaky with each passing second. The longer he just stood there, the more he felt as if...as if something was watching him. With some hesitance he peered around the corner into each hallway, making sure the heavy feeling of him being watched was just that: a feeling. _Left hallway; check. ...as much as I can see, anyway. Curved walls and all. Right hallw-_

Whatever thoughts had been running through Mike's head became as scrambled as a healthy breakfast when some person, creature, or what he would reluctantly describe as just some _thing_ retreated out of view within the corridor. The man acted similarly to whatever he had just seen, and pulled back around the corner. Pressing his back and neck uncomfortably against the plaster surface, he squeezed as close as he could to the wall. HOW exactly he managed this, Mike wasn't sure—it felt like the blood in his veins had frozen solid.

"What...the hell...was that?!" Mike half-whispered, half-wheezed out in between heavy breaths.

He was absolutely certain he had seen something; certain that his mind hadn't been playing tricks on him. For one: throughout his childhood, his teen years, and hell—even his ADULTHOOD so far—Mike had never been one to have such an active imagination that his mind could conjure up clear-as-day images of things that weren't actually there. No matter how paranoid this place seemed to make him. And two: he was pretty darn certain that his cereal hadn't been drugged this morning.

So ruling out any hallucinogens, he was forced to face the terrifying reality that something was indeed inside of this building with him. Well, it just goes to show—

—misery didn't always love company.

"Oh hell...oh hell..."

Slightly shaking in his sneakers, Mike ground his teeth and lowered his gaze to the floor. He might be a boxer; sure, he couldn't and wouldn't ever deny that fact. But there existed a major difference between fighting inside the ring, and fighting for your LIFE outside of it. That difference being that there were rules in the ring. No kicking, no hits below the belt, no cheap-shots—that sort of thing.

Once again, Mike peeked around the corner into the dimly-lit hallway. Nothing. He let out a breath, and clenched his eyes shut, forcing himself to try and think logically. _There's...there's probably nothing even there, and—and even if there was something or somebody—maybe they're harmless?_

That seemed to help his thoughts a bit, but not too much.

Lightly stepping back toward his bag, Mike began to unzip it—paused, to check the hallway once more—then finished and reached inside. He pulled out a worn-out pair of red boxing gloves. Memories flooded his mind as he turned a glove slowly in his hands, examining a heavily taped section in the padding. _No,_ he remembered, slipping the gloves onto his hands. _Not the...not the right time for that._

The young man turned his attention back toward the hallway. _H-here goes nothing,_ he thought to himself, a deep, shuddering breath leaving his mouth. Held in his hands were the only "weapons" he had ever felt comfortable using. Well not really HELD, per se, but you get the jist. Mike forced himself to ignore the millions of warning alarms blaring away in his head and started with light steps into the curved hall.

For several minutes, Mike kept on advancing through the expanse of bland green carpets and walls which seemed to stretch into eternity before him. To be honest, he wouldn't be completely shocked to find no end after even an HOUR of walking.

The FBF Grand Coliseum definitely stood up to its name.

The more unmarked doors he passed by without incident, though, the more he walked down this hall without seeing _anything_ even particularly creepy—the sight of a knife-wielding masked man just standing there maybe, or even the sound of a door quietly shutting from just out of his view—the more foolish he began to feel about this whole ordeal.

"Oh, who am I kidding…" whispered Mike Schmidt, having passed thirty unmarked and seven marked doors at this point. Hell, he had even COUNTED the amount of doors. "Maybe this stupid paranoia _is_ making my mind play tricks on me." Regardless of this thought, Mike continued down the hall. It wasn't until he had passed another five or so doors that he noticed something rather...peculiar, about his surroundings.

The green coloration on the doors and plaster walls held such an unkempt appearance to them that they had become a kind of gray-ish tint. Not at such a degree to be blatantly obvious—but just enough so that his detail-orientated eyes could just barely notice the change in tone.

This revelation made the uneasy feeling the FBF arena seemed to radiate according to Mike grow substantially. As he continued—walking normally at this point—the atmosphere had shifted from being only slightly jarring, to being genuinely creepy. Why would a part of the building so connected to the main lobby, where visitors HAD to enter from, seem so abandoned? For another minute this went on, until up ahead of Mike it finally appeared as if the main hallway had come to a stop.

A gray door stood alone at the end of the corridor, a sign plastered onto its surface warning him that 'ADMINISTRATION ONLY' could continue past this point. Something like that was bound to be locked at all times, or at least when not opened by some higher-up of the company.

In other words:

"Dead end," Mike said aloud, his voice quietly echoing in the closed-off space. He let out a sigh, shoulders slumped, but caught himself before he collapsed down onto the carpet in relief.

"Man, if I'm going to keep coming here almost everyday, I've really gotta get used to it…" he groaned, running a boxing glove's rough padding down his face.

Suddenly, panic struck Mike harder than any physical entity ever could when he felt furry digits clench around his left shoulder. He acted completely on instinct. Ducking, he lunged out of the limb's grasp. He spun around to defend himself, but froze upon noticing WHO that limb was actually attached to.

"MIKE! Mike, will you _relax_?! It's just me!" yelled Foxy, her voice echoing off the hallway's walls. She had her arms held akimbo front of her in case Mike hadn't stopped.

His fists still creating a wall of separation between the two, he could only hold his gaze into those glaring, golden orbs a second or so longer before dropping it (and his fists). That carpet seemed a whole lot more interesting, now. "S-sorry, I—uh, I didn't see you there."

"Did you not _hear_ me, then, either? Slugger?" asked Foxy with furrowed brows.

"...no?"

Foxy huffed and stowed her hook back behind her waist now that the earlier physical tension had dissipated. Several questions flurried throughout her head at the moment. Why was Mike here already? Would he really explore the FBF Grand Coliseum without at least consulting her first?

Why was he near _that damn door?_

After a moment of consideration, though, she dismissed the last question as just being unreasonably paranoid. From what Foxy had seen before letting him know she was there, Mike hadn't even seemed all that interested in the door. She intended to keep it that way. So she decided it would ultimately be best to ask the question least likely to draw suspicion to it.

"Just...whatever," Foxy said, shaking her head. With a slight nod in the direction they came from, she motioned for Mike to follow her back to the lobby. Letting a few seconds pass in silence, Foxy waited a bit before asking. "Mike...what are ya' even _doing_ here so early? You're here nearly an hour before you're supposed to be."

Avoiding eye contact, Mike kept his eyes down as he quietly removed and tied-together his gloves. He let out a slow, drawn-out sigh and muttered something unintelligible under his breath.

"Come again?"

"...bad weather…"

"—what?" asked Foxy, casting an odd glance at the man.

"Uhm, heh—I guess a better way to explain it would be that I left earlier than usual today to…"

"Go on."

"I left earlier than usual today to...to well—make a good impression, you know? Wanted to show I actually gave a crap about this whole deal," said Mike, mentally scolding himself for stuttering so often.

"..."

Foxy didn't say anything for a while after that.

When the two of them made it back to the lobby, Mike broke away from following Foxy and walked up to the entrance door. As if only to prove what he thought earlier correct; the rain hadn't slowed down in the slightest. If anything, it seemed to have SPED UP. It must have been around ten seconds before Mike heard heavy footfalls approaching from behind. Out of his peripheral he saw Foxy come to a stand next to him. She gave him a few fleeting glances before staring out into the rain, too.

"Slugger, why the hell did you leave an _hour_ early?" she asked, not looking at him.

Mike chuckled nervously. "Heh, well really it was only around forty minutes—give or take…"


	7. Round One!

Five days had passed since that last training session. Continuing what was appearing to be a trend of unseasonal weather, the air outside of the arena was actually rather warm for a day in December. It had been in the high sixties during most of the day, which allowed for t-shirts and maybe even shorts for some—though along with the sun's gradual descent, the temperatures had also fallen slightly. None of this information mattered to Mike Schmidt, however.

No—what mattered the most to Mike on this night was what occurred WITHIN the arena. And tonight it could've been sweltering hot or shiver-inducingly cold for all he cared. For lack of a better phrase: he was pumped.

He and Foxy were in the same gym as before, in the middle of last-minute preparations for the fight. Lightly and quickly shifting his balance between his feet, Mike jabbed at the punching bag hung in front of him. His fist, garbed in the usual protective glove, whipped into the tough leather material three times in rapid-succession before he side-stepped, ducked beneath an imaginative blow, then struck with a hook.

"—feel you're ready for tonight, Mike?" Foxy called out suddenly, catching his attention.

Mike lowered his hands and turned on his heel to glance at Foxy across the gym, who; after a few minutes of silently observing, had pushed herself off of the wall and started walking toward him with a quirked brow. Mike opened his jaws to say something. Gulping, he instead chose to return to throwing punches at the bag. "Yep," he stated rather plainly, following a moment of silence.

Foxy held her gaze at the preoccupied man and smirked. "Good. I expected as much—in spite of the short amount of time we had to work with, I think I was still able to teach you a _pretty_ decent amount." The vixen was thankful Mike wasn't looking at her at the moment though, as what she said was only partially true. She certainly DID think it was surprising how much she had been able to teach him in just a few days. But on a physical level, Mike was probably at the same level or at most; just a bit stronger or faster than he had been in his first match with Toy Chica. "Of course I was ORIGINALLY TOLD your rematch would be NEXT Sunday—but sometimes a schedule changes for stupid reasons, unfortunately."

After landing one last punch on the bag, Mike reeled his arm back for another blow, but decided with a bit of satisfaction that he was warmed-up enough. He reclined onto the leather seat of one of the many exercising utilities' benches.

Foxy took a seat next to him—granting him a good couple of feet of space, of course—and lightly patted him on the shoulder. "Now come on, we gotta be gettin' out there." The man flinched slightly at the contact, but other than a simple nod, he gave no direct response.

Mike lightly closed his eyes. Deep inhale, hold it for...one...two…three seconds...then exhale it all. Despite the staggering—near surprising—amount of determination he felt within, Mike knew it would never fully replace the general nervousness that came with each major bout. He repeated that calming process three times to try and steady his racing heart. After the third exhale, he got to his feet and stepped over to the exit.

He had already turned the knob and pulled the door open slightly when a realization came to him. He hadn't heard Foxy follow him. Quirking a brow, Mike glanced over his shoulder, and sure enough; the vulpine animatronic was still sitting cross-legged on the bench.

She motioned with a nod of her head toward the door.

"...you're not going in? With me?"

"WHA—of _course_ I'm going in," Foxy stated, letting out a huff. "Only a dumbass would think I'd spend the time to train ya' only to _not_ watch—I just have to go in through one of the coach entrances. I live here, so I gotta abide by the rules too."

"I...alright, good point," he admitted with a nod.

"See ya' once you're down there, Mike."

* * *

Beneath his feet, Michael Schmidt felt the floor of the boxing ring practically VIBRATING with the force of the rumbling crowd around him. Sweat already gathered in his short hair from the heat generated by such a large gathering of people in one, enclosed space. He blocked out as much of the commotion as was possible and scanned the crowd for a group of familiar faces.

 _Let's see, they said they'd be sitting in Section F...which...is over there. Okay and since they got seats close to the ring, that means they should be pretty easy to find._

 _Relatively._

And...there they were. Mike gave a small smile and waved at his mother, father, and little sister sat only three rows back from the ring. All three of them waved back, shouting at him something that was ultimately lost in the cacophony of screaming and cheering blaring from every direction around him. Once again, the reality of _how many_ people were actually here to witness the event struck the man like a train.

He gulped, leaned back onto the turnbuckle, and lowered his gaze to the boxing ring-floor to try block out the crowd. _Either my mind's playing tricks on me, or there are even MORE people here than last week…_ To be perfectly honest, though, the possibility would make sense.

From what Foxy had told him, it was actually an OBSCENELY uncommon event for boxers to rechallenge the 'Freddy Circuit'. Most challengers took their loss at Toy Chica's hands and either went back to whatever league they had been in before, or in some occasions—simply pursued a different interest than a life in the ring.

Mr. Fazbear's words from the interview a few days prior came to mind.

" _I'm rather disappointed he lost how he did last night. Though unfortunately I can't say I'm at all surprised."_

He expected Mike to lose. In fact, he probably even expected the man to quit boxing altogether after that loss. Mike was just another sucker to him.

The mouthpiece squeaked at the force of him clenching his jaw.

"Hey, Mike!"

Eyebrows shooting up in surprise; he turned, looked down and found that the source of the familiar voice was Foxy herself—donning her hoodie from the first match. She waved upon noticing his gaze. "How are ya' feeling, slugger?"

Mike threw a quick glance over at the corner where Toy Chica was going to be. He slid the guard out of his mouth and said, "As good as ever!"

"Positive? Because ya' look a little nervous!" she yelled over the drone of the crowd.

"...is it that obvious?"

A second or two later, Mike slightly (majorly) flinched when he felt a hand lightly grip his shoulder. He looked over that shoulder to see Foxy—hook around the turnbuckle—standing on the outside corner of the ring. How she managed to clear the three foot gap between the room's floor and the elevated platform, he would never know.

Eyes lighting up a golden color beneath her hood, Foxy smirked at him. "You barely lost last time. Just remember what I told ya' and it'll go—"

"...it'll go...what?" Mike asked, confused by her abrupt silence. Turning his head to look at her, Mike saw that Foxy's trademark smirk had been replaced by a frown, her still-glowing eyes glaring holes into something behind him.

 _Oh,_ he thought, turning and realizing what—or who, rather—it was that had caught her attention.

Toy Chica now stood in the doorway opposite where he entered from. When the crowd noticed this fact, the roaring and screaming in the room somehow became even LOUDER. The animatronic smiled, alternating the direction of her waving left and right as she began jogging down to the ring. _Quite the crowd pleaser,_ Mike thought, his face probably a mirror of the vixen's next to him.

If it says anything about the size of the room; even at a fast jogging pace, it took her near a half minute to reach the ring. Once she finally reached it, though, she stopped her waving to the crowd and climbed beneath the ropes onto the elevated platform.

That smile on her face disappeared the instant she saw Mike and the hooded figure.

Foxy's hand gripped harder on Mike's shoulder. Turning his head to look at her, she stared silently into his eyes for just a second before speaking at a level low enough for Toy Chica to not hear. "Just...remember what I've taught you and it'll...it'll go off without a hitch." She gave a small smile and continued, "Strike first. Don't wait around letting yourself get hit all day—hit back. Stay calm, focused, and more importantly: make sure to breathe.

Oh, and one last thing."

She gave one last pat to his shoulder before hopping down to the floor. "Knock that chick OUT, slugger!"

Despite the tense atmosphere of the night, and the overbearing sensation of millions of eyes scrutinizing his every move—Mike found himself lightly chuckling. "Yep. I definitely made the right decision when I accepted her offer." He frowned again and lightly tapped his gloves together. "Now to prove I'm not a waste of her time."

In the next several minutes that passed, there were no words exchanged between the two boxers. Both knew that a _'before fight chat'_ would be useless at this point. All that there was to be said between them had already been said, whether through action or word. The fact that Mike had shown up here again proved he was determined to beat her; that his loss wouldn't stop him. The hooded figure that had been talking to Mike when she showed up could only reasonably be Foxy herself, which meant that Toy Chica's warning to her about Freddy hadn't deterred her.

 _I have to win._

 _I can't let him continue._

Beating the Freddy Circuit is my only shot of actually BEING someone.

 _Freddy will destroy Mike if I don't stop him here._

Mike and Toy Chica were left staring for another minute before the referee climbed up into the ring. The man, dressed in the typical black and white stripes, flashed a toothy grin to the contenders before raising the microphone to his mouth. "Laaaaaadies and gentlemen! Before I introduce these here fighters, let me just begin by saying that—for the first time in over TWENTY LOOONG YEARS...the match taking place here tonight is gonna be a REMAAAATCH!"

As the last word left the ref's mouth, the sound of the crowd absolutely _erupted_. For a few painful seconds, Mike did what he could to cover his ears with the bulky boxing gloves. He was suddenly thankful he had put the mouthpiece back on.

When the sound didn't die down after awhile, the referee literally just shrugged with an 'eh, screw it' look on his face and continued regardless.

"In this corner...weighing in at 198—I'm sorry—19 _6_ pounds, we have the southern animatronic you all know and LOVE—it's Toy Chica the Chiiiiiiicken!"

Toy Chica showed little to no reaction at the introduction, and Mike Schmidt, having lowered his hands by now, only gritted his teeth with a bit more force than he already had been.

"Aaaand over here in this corner...weighing in at 20 _8_ pounds, we have a sure champion; the one man BRAVE enough to come back after a loss at the hands of the chicken! Hailing alllll the way from suburbia—Michael Schmiiiiiidt!"

As the referee spun around to hand the mic off to somebody out of the ring, Mike gave one last wave over to his cheering family. _Time to make you guys proud._

"Five!"

"Four!"

"Three!"

"Two!"

"One!"

 _DING DING!_

With the echoes of the bell still ringing through the stadium, Mike and Toy Chica ran towards each other. The two instantly began circling each other. Wanting to waste little time, Mike waited not even two seconds before acting. He knew that she expected another weak, testing punch like he did the match before. So, that's what he gave her.

Toy Chica held her arms vertically together to cover her head. Right as his fist was about to connect though, Mike instead shifted his footing, twisted his hips, and slammed her gut with a strike from his left. The crowd _roared_ upon the move's impact—excited screams and cheers coming from every direction. She coughed from the hit and retreated but Mike followed her backward movement, repeatedly jabbing at her weakened guard. Three hits later, and Toy Chica ducked beneath the next one and pushed Mike away with both arms to create some space between them.

The man stumbled back from the shove, recovering his footing about two feet away from her. Toy Chica took another step back and returned to her neutral stance—arms extended slightly more than usual to try and maintain distance. Her chest heaved in heavy breaths.

 _A little winded, huh?_ Mike thought, a small grin turning his lips. _Now you know how I fe-_

Suddenly, a left hook was thrown at him. Going against a fighter using an orthodox (left foot leading, right foot back) stance, such a punch was generally not expected. He couldn't fully react in time. Mike's cheek flared in pain as Toy Chica's glove scraped against it. She threw another hook. This time from the expected right-side (relative to Toy Chica). Mike used a glove to stop it, then, when a jab came from HIS right side, he leaned back and took a quick step away from Toy Chica. Right as he was about to follow through though, Toy Chica merely stood and _stared_ at him.

Despite the obvious mechanical nature of her build, her bright, blue eyes looked disturbingly...well—REAL, with the expression of pure shock shown through them.

Understandably confused by her behavior, Mike quirked a brow. He took a second to wipe sweat off of his face with his forearm. When he brought the arm down, though, Mike saw a patch of crimson on his arm that wasn't from any noticeable cut. He stared at the streak of blood for a second longer before it finally clicked in his head. _Oh._

 _DING DING!_

And with that, the first round came to a close.

The next several rounds passed in a blur for the fighters. Each blow was thrown with as much as the last, each fighter taking hits that would injure a normal man, neither backing down even slightly. Both had their reasons for _needing_ to win tonight. Failure was NOT an option at this point.

Even an hour later—when Round 8 ended—the spirits in the coliseum were still high. The crowd was still loud and rambunctious as always, though their voices had become white-noise to the fighters. Static in the background, if you will.

"You doin' okay, Mike?"

In spite of the worn-out expression on his face, he still managed to answer in as clear a voice as usual. "I'm fine."

"Good. T. Chica looks like she's on the ropes," Foxy said, laughing beneath her hood.

Mike closed his eyes, and recalling Foxy's advice on remembering to breathe—spoke in between deep breaths. "I...imagine I look...pretty darn close...too."

"Here."

When he reopened his eyes, Mike saw a wet towel held in Foxy's hand. He removed a glove, and used the towel to wipe down his sweat-drenched forehead, his nose, and his cheeks (he ignored a slight stinging sensation when he rubbed the left side). Mumbling his appreciation, he handed the rag back to Foxy.

Foxy took the sweat and blood covered rag in two fingers, frowned, then tossed it down onto her gear-kit out of the ring. "Since that damn CUT of yours finally stopped bleedin'—" her frown deepened ever-so-slightly, "—I figured your face could use a lil' bit of a wipe-down. Oh, and speaking of that cut...we should probably get that thing cleaned some time soon, Mike. I might not be HUMAN, ya' know, but I can still imagine infections not bein' the least bit FUN."

Mike dismissed the statement with a wave of his hand. "Thanks, but no. Or at least...not right now. I can deal with it after the fight."

"I'll hold ya' to that."

"Thank you. Um…" Mike lowered his gaze to the floor as he thought about how to phrase something that had just come to mind. _On second thought..._ "...eh...nevermind."

Patting his shoulder, Foxy laughed and said, "It ain't a problem at all, slugger." Her face turned serious again, as she leaned forward slightly more to whisper directly into his ear. "Now, like I said—the chicken is nearing her limit. Look, you can see it in her stance alone!" —Foxy broke off into another light chuckle— "Ahem...now, with that said, Mike, don't get too cocky. You both might—ah hell, it's definitely not a 'might' at this point—you both ARE tired. Only physically, though. That mind o' yours is still sharp."

Mike ignored the slight discomfort in being in such close proximity with Foxy, and snorted. "I understand. So...keep my mind on the ball, and...don't overextend."

"Exactly."

A slight nod of his head was Mike's only other response as he put his previously removed glove back on. He opened and clenched his fists in barely-contained anticipation.

Leaping down from the boxing ring, Foxy turned to walk away...but after a moment's hesitation, she couldn't help but glance back up at her trainee. _Ya' know...even though I've only been training you for around a week now...I can definitely see a lil' bit of myself in you._

Her eye-lights having been long since turned off—the smirk underneath her hood was hidden in the shadow cast by the light above. _Already makin' me proud._

DING DING!

A jab to the right—Toy Chica blocked it. Left jab—blocked by Mike. Hook from the right—once again, it was blocked by Toy Chica. Mike ducked beneath an incoming punch, then leaned leftward to swerve out of the way of an overextending hook.

If there was one thing he was familiar with, it was the stupidly simple concept of exhaustion.

Exhaustion. The result of pushing oneself past the natural limits of one's body. Past the point of comfort. What were originally natural movements become sluggish. The way you act becomes predictable to those paying attention. And a cold, drowning doubt fills you faster than any courage ever could. You simply _know_ when you're exhausted.

Mike Schmidt knew this better than anyone.

Which is why when it finally reared its ugly head right in front of his face—he noticed. There was a stumble in Toy Chica's step as she tried to pull back from a swing. When she threw her other fist at him—which he deflected with a soft hit of his own—it seemed as if she was literally _throwing_ it at him. Her hits felt as if they were slowly becoming weaker and less coordinated.

Apparently Toy Chica realized this fact as well. Once again, she stepped forward and wrapped her arms around his shoulders. Gritting his teeth against his mouth-guard, Mike furrowed his brow and pushed against Toy Chica to try and get the animatronic off of him. _Dang, she's...she's got an IRON grip...or something._

The two struggled to try and overpower the other. Toy Chica would gain a bit of an advantage for a few seconds, then she'd lose control and Mike would take the lead again. Mike was just beginning to bare his teeth at her when to his surprise, Toy Chica spoke.

"Mike, ya'...uff...ya' d-don't have to do this!"

"Wrong," Mike replied, momentarily shocked by the amount of clarity in his voice despite the mouth-guard. "You're wrong," —he grunted in his effort to push her back— "I DO have to do this!"

"I'm t-tryin' to protect you!"

"..."

Mike's only response was to keep on pushing, his eyes sparking with anger. Toy Chica seemed to recoil slightly at his glare before putting even more strength into her grip.

"Mike, jus'...uff...just. Let. Me. WIN. YA' DUNNO WHAT YOU'RE UP AGAINST!" Toy Chica said, her voice slightly squeaking with panic. "THERE ARE...ARE FOES BEYOND ME THAT ARE STRONGER THAN ANY HUMAN!"

"Are you still talking about Freddy?!"

"YES! PLEASE MIKE, JUST...just please don't do this…! You don't _have_ to do this!"

" _Yes. I. DO!"_ The man was speaking through clenched teeth at this point.

" _WHY?!"_

Suddenly, Mike switched-up his tactics—instead of trying to push Toy Chica off, he seized her by the shoulders and yanked her towards him. He brought her head closer to him until her face was mere inches away from him.

" _Why?"_ Mike asked rhetorically in a low snarl, a vein in his forehead throbbing. "Because this is the _only_ thing I can _do_!"

Toy Chica's eyes widened in pure shock when she was thrown clear from Mike. Her back came in contact with the boundary ropes, which absorbed her impact—painfully on her part. She had only begun to lift her arms to cover herself, but Mike was already upon her, fists lashing out in fierce, rapid strikes. Each deafening strike to her gut, chest, and head was emphasized with a loud grunt of effort on his part. Toy Chica tried in vain to defend herself from the onslaught—she really did—but whenever she tried to cover _one_ part of her, Mike was already slamming his fist into another.

The cheering crowd had all but disappeared to Mike in his anger, nothing else mattering to him in this moment aside from winning.

With one last right jab to her chest, he pulled back his left arm and summoned every last ounce of his remaining strength. What sounded like a roar left Michael's mouth as he crashed his fist into the side of Toy Chica's head. The sound on impact was akin to two bullet trains ramming full speed into each other.

The chicken was out cold before she hit the floor.


	8. Stressed Situations

Subconsciously adjusting the towel loosely hanging from his shoulders, Mike Schmidt grinned to the women looking at him from the inside of a black car. He waved a hand at her dismissively.

"No, I don't really need a ride home tonight, mom."

His mother gave him a scrutinizing look from the passenger side window, an eyebrow raised. "You sure?" she asked. "I would think you'd be tired after a match like that, Michael."

Mike shook his head. "Positive. While I'm pretty beat, there are one or two things I need to get sorted here before I can actually leave."

"Well, if you're so sure, Michael...I won't try to keep you," his mother said, a sad smile on her face. She began rolling the car-window up, but a set of large fingers suddenly reached out and gripped the glass, halting the process. The window lowered once again, and Victor Schmidt leaned over from the driver's side of the vehicle.

"Hey, son! Wanted to tell you I'm proud of your performance!" After receiving a stern look from the woman right next to him, he laughed and continued to clarify by saying, "Heh. Me _and_ your mother are proud. You did pretty damn great tonight. Glad I was actually able to, you know, show up this time."

"Thanks. And trust me: I'm glad you were here too, dad."

Even with the dim light within the car, Mike saw a look on his father's face that looked as if he wanted to say something else, but was very reluctant to mention whatever that 'something else' was. He glanced to his wife for a few dragging seconds, then just shook his head. "...try to not be out here too late, Michael."

Mike motioned with a thumbs-up that he understood. With that, Victor returned to his side of the car and the window, unobstructed this time, slid back up. From high up above him, the FBF Grand Coliseum's lights shown down and reflected off of the glass, giving Mike a clear look at the cut on his face. Which...reminded him once again that he needed to get the damn thing cleaned out and bandaged. Good thing he was heading back into the building, anyway.

With only its headlights and the barely audible sound of an engine to warn people of it in the night, the Schmidt family car drove off out of the parking lot. Not even five seconds later and neither the vehicle or its lights were still in Mike's view.

Mike lingered there for a moment, peering idly into the darkness of night.

Two and a half hours had passed since the match's end. There had been an initial _boom_ in traffic immediately following the announcement of a winner—there always was after these matches. Tonight, however, there had been a different feeling within the built up, packed chaos of traffic.

Since fights at the FBF generally ended in the challenger's loss, the audiences usually left the building with only a sense of sadistic satisfaction; having had the opportunity to watch some poor schmuck get the ever-living hell beaten out of them. That was the normal occasion. Tonight had been different. The challenger had gotten the snot beaten out of him, sure, but he had also returned that beating to Toy Chica. He had lasted a strenuous nine rounds against the chicken, took everything she threw at him in a desperate attempt to halt his progress, and in the end, Mike Schmidt walked out of that ring the victor of the night.

He might've not been the _champion_ of the circuit quite yet, but who knew—in time, maybe he would be. And that's all that mattered to people for the time being.

People leaving the FBF Grand tonight left with a distinct feeling of curiosity.

" _He actually WON?!"_

" _Will he continue winning?"_

" _...where do I buy those shorts?"_

Questions like those and many more ran through the heads of audience members as they sat in their vehicles. Distracted as they were mentally, traffic took quite a bit longer to settle than usual.

It was midnight currently, and aside from one or two cars still in the parking lot from employees finishing up their jobs, the FBF Grand Coliseum and its lot were finally nearing vacancy. Just how Mike preferred it. Now, he could finally get back to doing what Foxy had asked him to do hours ago.

After the match tonight, Foxy had told him to meet her somewhere once he was done talking to his parents. He had already expected this, really. He figured that she'd want to talk to him about how he did tonight: what he did _right,_ what he did _wrong,_ etc. The only problem with that whole deal was that he had no idea where this _somewhere_ was supposed to be.

Well, that wasn't EXACTLY true. He did have one idea.

With one last stretch of his back, Mike turned on a heel and made his way back into the FBF Grand. Unlike the many other times he had walked through here while not anticipating a match, two ladies sat behind the lobby's desk. The taller of which was distracted on her phone. The shorter, more wirey of the two tapped away at the main computer's keyboard, though she gave a friendly wave to Mike when she noticed him.

"Great match today, Mr. Schmidt!"

"Thank you, miss," Mike replied, smiling meekly in return. He continued walking down the left hallway though, and by the time he had passed a few doors, that shy smile of his was gone and replaced by his usual frown. This situation, among others, was the perfect representation of the cruel irony of his life. Despite wanting to make a name for himself in the world—direct confrontations like that were a bit out of his comfort zone.

 _Guess I'll just have to deal with that type of thing if I'm to keep on going,_ he thought, his eyes absentmindedly peering at the green carpet below his feet. _Even if I'm not exactly what people would call 'social', this is just gonna keep happening more often as I go._

In just another minute of walking, Mike found himself in front of the door leading to the gym area. On its surface, "BOXERS ONLY" was bluntly printed, as welcoming a sign as ever. At this point, he didn't really feel it necessary for him to have to knock on the door before he entered the room, as he had spent every recent weekday training in there with Foxy. Regardless, he opened the door with some shadow of a reluctance.

To Mike's surprise, he found the large room to be completely shrouded in darkness, with the only source of light being the small curtain of it coming in through the doorway. His own shadow covered a large portion of that curtain, stretching several feet into the room before melding into the surrounding black.

"Maybe she fell asleep…?" Mike whispered, his voice piercing the silence that had settled into the room. He squinted to try and spot _any_ discernible figure in the dark, but all he could see was a small section of the wooden floor lit-up by the previously mentioned curtain of light. Reaching blindly into the dark, he searched the nearby wall for a switch to turn the lights on.

"Hello...?" called Mike.

His hand eventually found a number of switches, and he flipped the one nearest to him up. A soft click echoed throughout the space as bright lights flooded it, illuminating the spotless training area. Mike walked inside to get a better look. Nobody.

The various pieces of weight-lifting and stretching equipment appeared to be untouched; as did the practice ring over in the corner. With few spots for something, or someone to be hidden within the gym—and none of those large enough to accommodate somebody Foxy's size—Mike quickly concluded that she wasn't in there. The main room, anyway. It was then that he recalled the storage space where they had watched Foxy's old matches.

Before he even made it to the storage's closed door, something already told him that Foxy wouldn't be in here, either. From what Mike remembered, the door wasn't thick enough to really muffle any sound, and his ears were still ringing from the deafening silence. He didn't hear a thing from beyond that slab of wood. Regardless, he threw caution to the wind and pulled the door open a crack to peek inside.

The shoddy lights were on, casting a yellowish-white glow on the room's contents. The television on the table wasn't turned on, but of the two folding, metal chairs, the one on the right— _Foxy's_ chair—was pulled out from underneath the table and sat unused; aside from the remote laying on its seat. With such a small space, Mike could tell from just one look that Foxy wasn't currently in here.

 _But she_ was _earlier._

Mike shook his head, and turned to start walking back into the hallway. _If that fox isn't here...then where is she? I still don't know how to maneuver around this place much, so I can't exactly_ snoop around _as much as I'd like._

If it wasn't for the assurance that there were still other people in the building, Mike might've felt a bit uneasy as he made it back into the hallway. With the discovery that Foxy hadn't been where he had expected her to be, Mike was starting to grow worried. Not for her sake, but for his. He leaned back against the door, putting a hand to his chin in thought.

"If I don't find her soon," he mumbled. "Foxy might think I ditched her or something... And even though I won, she'll still be pretty darn upset tomorrow if I just don't show up like I said I would..."

After a few seconds of consideration, though, an idea came to Mike's mind. He checked down both ends of the hall, saw nobody, then turned to walk to the left. Mike had already checked the one place _inside_ he had expected her to be. That meant he would just have to check _outside_ real quick, then—meaning the alleyway he had gone to a week before.

It didn't take long for him to reach it. Thankfully, this one was of the few doors in the building to have a label (along with the "BOXERS ONLY" and "ADMINISTRATION ONLY doors"). With the hand still holding a towel he had nearly forgotten about at this point, he turned the doorknob and shouldered past the slab of metal.

The dingy back-alley was as unfortunately desolate as it had been that first night here. Not wanting to give up the search quite yet, Mike jogged down the stone steps and ran out onto the thin stretch of asphalt, his neck craning as he looked both ways to see if he could spot hide or hair of Foxy. He double-checked both directions, he checked _once_ more, then, with no sight of the very distinguishable animatronic fox—Mike simply let his head recline in disappointment.

"That's just great. _Great!_ Absolutely fantastic…." Frustrated with the fruitless search, Mike pinched the bridge of his nose. That was just his luck. Even after winning his first match in the Freddy Circuit—a name that he would never find NOT stupid—he still found some way of managing to piss his friend off.

...wait, hold up. Did he just call Foxy his friend?

A _friend?_

Did Mike even _want_ a friend?

Friends weren't exactly a concept familiar to Mike at this time of his life. Like already mentioned: he was not what people could in good faith label as a "social man." He wasn't at all the type of guy to go out and party every weekend, or to go out for a drink with a couple o' buddies after work. He was 22, and for the past nine of those twenty-or-so years; nearly all of his free-time had been spent focused on his trade of choice. And the rest of it had been spent at home.

His last friend had been a girl living near his grandparents' cottage. Not only had he not seen that child—who would actually be an adult by now—since he was around five years old;

Mike didn't even remember her name.

Whether that really bothered him or not, Mike didn't have time to decide—because it was at that moment that he suddenly felt cold steel pressed against the back of his head.

"Put 'em up—don't even fuckin' THINK of movin'."

The heat of the man's breath could be felt clearly on Mike's ear, and the smell: a disgusting mixture of cigarettes, beer, and a thin layer of coffee-grinds. Even with the tiniest whiff Mike had gotten, the putrid scent managed to form a deep feeling of nausea in his stomach. Oh, and how could he forget the gun?

Mike gulped, a storm of thoughts raging through his head. Of these thoughts, the most prevalent: _Shit, shit, shit…_

The man with the gun continued. "Any sudden movements, an' you get shot. Capeesh?" He emphasized the statement by pressing the handgun more forcefully into Mike's head.

Moving his head as smooth as physically possible in his shaking state, Mike nervously nodded. It didn't matter how tough he thought he was, or how strong. If a man has a firearm pointed at your skull, whether you know he has the guts to actually shoot or not—you fucking listen. Mike knew it wasn't worth losing his life to be some hotshot.

"Swell. Now...let's walk."

"W-where...?" Mike asked. He would almost immediately regret asking this. A pained cry left him then, as he felt a sudden twinge in the back of his head. For several seconds, all he could see were stars.

The man pulled the handgun back from striking Mike, then returned the barrel to its previous position. "Where? Why—right on ahead, dipshit! Now move!"

Mike gritted his teeth from the throbbing pain in his head, but ultimately forced himself to resist any urge to tend to the bruise and began walking—slowly, of course. Right now, walking wasn't as easy a task as it usually was. While it may have had something to do with his head aching from just having been _pistol-whipped_ , a lot of the difficulty came with a cold, feeling of numbness that had settled into his calves and knees.

The normally stoic boxer was terrified. Though with the current situation, he felt it was sort of justified.

The man continued leading Mike down the alley for nearly half a minute before they turned a corner around the building, and he finally spoke again. "You fucked me tonight...ya' realize that, right?"

No—no he didn't.

"Absolutely fucked me…" the man hissed, trailing off with a sigh. "Know _how?_ "

Gulping, Mike took a chance and slowly shook his head. Once again, the pistol—he wasn't sure of its designation, having never been one for firearms—was pressed more firmly against his head. At any minute, Mike constantly expected to hear a final bang before everything went dark. His life currently hung by a thread, the fate of which was based solely on the whim of a man that quite frankly, sounded more than a little loopy in the mind. Some turn of luck.

"I was at your match tonight, Mr. Boxer," the man stated. "Came with a couple pals to gamble an' try an' bet on who'd win."

He paused for a second in speech, and in movement. Realizing the man had stopped, Mike quickly came to a halt, too, though he had discreetly earned himself at least an inch or two of space from the barrel of the man's pistol. He breathed a quiet breath of relief, but otherwise didn't dare move.

"The obvious winner was gonna be Toy Chica—I mean, why the fuck _wouldn't_ it be, ya' know? She had won every, single fight before. Last week included. So I took the easiest bet possible, feeling this was just gonna be a get rich quick situation."

Confused, Mike quirked a brow. _There had been people betting on which boxer would win?_ That probably shouldn't have surprised him, knowing how people were. Though he couldn't help the small bout of anger rising in his gut upon the realization that this man had also just outright said betting _against_ Mike had been the most obvious choice to make. He remained silent, his hands held up like they had been for the past few minutes, but he turned with great hesitance to look at the man currently threatening his life.

To be honest: said man looked _nothing_ like the stereotypical thug, or perhaps even homeless man look that Mike had expected to see when he turned. What he saw instead, was actually quite the opposite.

The man with the gun wore a suit; a dark gray, or perhaps even black tuxedo that Mike could tell had been custom-fitted for the man. Despite that, a few flaws in his attire were apparent. The first being that his sleeves had apparently been the victims of some clumsy spectator's drink splashing about, as countless little dark stains were splattered up and down the fabric. The second, more obvious flaw being that the man's tie—if he had even worn one in the first place—was nonexistent.

 _Maybe he tore the thing off when I won,_ Mike thought grimly.

Upon the man's face, Mike saw no scraggly beard; on the contrary, he could probably even be labeled as 'baby-faced' by some. He wore an eerie looking grin, and his eyes were set upon Mike in a wild manner that sent waves upon waves of discomfort running down his spine.

"Tell me, Smith—"

"I-it's Schmidt—"

"Don't you fuckin' correct me!" The grin on the man's face had disappeared as he said—no, _barked_ this statement. He brandished the gun toward Mike, effectively clearing the boxer's mouth of any future comments he had planned on making. "Don't you—don't you fuckin' DARE correct me."

Slowly, the grin crept back onto his face. "Tell me, _Schmidt_ ," —he laced the word with an unfathomable amount of malice— "Do you wanna know? How much money I _lost_ on that bet? How much I _lost—_ because of _you?_ "

Mike didn't budge.

" _I LOST FUCKING EVERYTHING!"_ The sound of the man's voice echoed throughout the alleyway as he roared, his hand tightening its grip around the pistol.

Mike's brain screamed at him to call out for help, to yell out for someone to stop this madman, but the painful dryness of his throat made that impossible. Not that it would've helped much, anyway. Mike was well aware that none of the employees inside of the FBF would hear any such cry, no matter how loud he yelled. But he was also aware that unless he acted within the next five seconds—did _something,_ no matter how drastic—these could very well be the last waking moments he ever experienced.

"It's not Mike's fault you gambled your life away, asshole," a feminine voice suddenly called out, the source of which unseen by both men. _Wait a second, was that—_

What followed was a blur.

Foxy bolted around the corner behind the man, hook raised. The man turned, the gun swirling around to face the new challenger. Not allowing him to shoot, Foxy swung her hook to go around the man's wrist and yanked it up and outward. The man fired. Aside from a bullet ricocheting uselessly off the brick wall behind her, though, Foxy was unscathed. She continued pulling the man's wrist harder and farther until a disgusting _crack_ was heard from the joint, and the man's gun was flung to the ground (it didn't go off, thankfully).

"AUGHHHHH—" the man's agonized scream of pain was promptly cut short by a fur-covered fist driving itself straight into his face, and like a pile of bricks—he collapsed to the floor.

Neither Mike nor Foxy talked for a few seconds after that. Mike stood, still shook by the whole ordeal, a solid foot back from where the armed man had landed, his widened eyes glued to the crumpled heap on the floor. Across from him, Foxy was also looking down at the unconscious man, air coming back to her in deep, but quiet breaths. While the situation might've been over now, both of them needed a moment to recover.

"Mike, are you...are you okay?" Foxy eventually asked, breaking the tense silence.

Mike glanced up from the man to look at her, and Foxy could see the fear still living within the blue of his eyes. He stared at her in silence for a moment, glanced down at the suited man, then looked back up at her again. Suddenly, as if a switch had been flipped in his mind, Mike shook himself from the stupor he had apparently fallen into, and he let out a shaky sigh.

"Yeah, I'm...I'm fine. Really."

"Bastard didn't hurt ya' or—or anything, right?"

Mike nodded, and with his hand he felt the tender spot on his head where he had been struck by the butt of the gun. "Aside from the back of my head, I'm okay."

"Come here—let me see," said Foxy, motioning him over with her hook.

With great reluctance, Mike carefully stepped around the man's body and walked over to her. Said reluctance wasn't lost on Foxy, but with the current situation she decided it could be addressed at a later time, and she ignored it. Putting a hand to Mike's shoulder, she gently turned him around to observe the spot on his head. Due to her greater height (she was around half a foot taller than him), it was easy work getting a good view of the man's head.

She felt around the area with a hand, softly testing different spots until a certain one made Mike wince in pain. Shifting the hair around it to get a better view, Foxy looked at it for a second more, then let out a sigh of relief and backed away from him.

"Looks like it's just a bump, so I think you'll be fine," said Foxy, a small smile on her face.

"Good." The usual frown on Mike's face was replaced by a meek grin as he turned around to face her.

"Still, I'm gonna ask ya' a few questions, just to make sure ya' don't have a concussion or anything. Alright?" Foxy asked. There was a slight bit of concern in her eyes that killed any resistance Mike might've had to the questioning.

"Sure, go ahead."

"Okay. Any feeling of being lightheaded or dizzy?"

"No, and no."

"That's great to hear! Now, do you hear any ringing in your ears, or have even the slightest bit of a feeling that you're about to puke?"

"No, and—" Mike paused. Now that he thought about it, he _did_ feel a little bit like he was about to throw up. He had had it ever since first being threatened by the man, though, so it was probably just from the fear. At least he hoped it was just from the fear. He was not about to wait a few weeks of boxing just because of some asshole's misguided aggression. "—and nope," he quickly finished.

Foxy smiled again, and pulled Mike into a light, one-armed hug. "So, no concussion, as far as I can tell! Guess I'll be seeing ya' tomorrow morning then, hm?"

Awkwardly returning the gesture, Mike nodded and replied, "Of course you will."

"Heh, I figured. Now come on! Let's go back to the gym, where we can talk in peace."

The two of them turned and started walking back down the alley. Right as they were about to go around the corner, however, a realization suddenly came to Mike. "...hey, shouldn't we call the police on that guy?" he asked, looking over his shoulder.

"Already did," said Foxy with a laugh. She then lightly punched Mike in the shoulder, and added, "Right before I knocked the fucker out, actually."

* * *

Mere minutes later, the duo found themselves back in the gym's storage space. Unlike the last time they sat in here, there was no boxing match from the past playing out on the CRT; in fact, the thing wasn't turned on. The folding metal chairs had been pulled out from under the table, and were now situated to be facing each other, separated by a small space.

One of those chairs wasn't currently being occupied by the pair, though, with Foxy being knelt down next to Mike, first-aid kit laid open on what would usually be her seat.

"About time we got his damn cut of yours cleaned up..." Foxy mumbled. She repeatedly dabbed the small cut on his cheek with a damp wash-cloth, making sure sure to be as careful as possible with cleaning out the wound. After a few gentle prods, she would move the cloth away, dunk it back into the cooler coincidentally filled with _warm_ water, then she would go back to the cleaning process again.

In the chair not even inches from Foxy, Mike sat frustrated and flustered from the close-proximity. One arm held an icepack to the bump on the back of his head, while the other simply lay neutral on his lap. Next to where Foxy's hook was currently. ...which might've been part of the reason for his flushed face.

A few minutes passed between the two in silence. Eventually though, Foxy pulled the washcloth away from Mike's face one last time, then dropped it into the cooler with a soft splash. Turning for a second to reach back into the first-aid kit, Foxy's hook unconsciously moved slightly on his lap until its cool metal came to a brief rest on his hand.

Mike glanced down at this, gulping. _I swear she's doing that intentionally._

That didn't last long, though, as Foxy turned back around to face him again, antibiotic in hand. She squeezed a small amount of the antibiotic on to his cheek, then put it back into the first-aid supplies. "Ya' know, this will probably sting a little, Mike," she said, a smirk against her maw.

Despite the bout of discomfort he might've been feeling, Mike let out a genuine laugh at that. "Yeah. I've had a few cuts in my life."

"Oh, don't be a wuss," she shot back, standing up. She walked around to the other side of his chair, and began rubbing the gel onto his cut. Almost the instant her furred finger met Mike's skin, he bore his teeth, letting out a quiet _hiss_ of slight pain. No matter how many times he had to go through this mundane process of making sure he didn't die a horrible death from infection—he never really did used to that distinct feeling of simultaneously burning/stinging. Even if it did hurt less than being smacked in the face, or being socked in the gut, or having pretty much every inch of his torso's front half struck and slammed by fists in general over the course of nine years. At the end of it all—putting on antibacterial cream or gel ultimately sucked.

"And...there!" Foxy declared after a short while, pulling away from Mike. She stood, reached into the first-aid kit once more, than pulled from it a small, unopened package of bandages.

Almott instantly, Mike leaned over and snatched the box from her. "Thank you, but I think I can handle this part," he said. Foxy gave him a curious look, but remained silent.

For a solid minute or so, Mike's fingers fumbled in attempting to get the still-sealed box open. The aforementioned fingers were a little too big to fit under the tab, and with almost nails to speak of—this package would end up the victor of their little tussle. Eventually, he let out a frustrated sigh and just tossed the package back to Foxy.

"...guess I COULDN'T handle that part…" He shut his eyes and grumbled to himself, crossing his arms with a huff.

Not even a second later, Mike felt something poke him in the arm. He opened an eye to see Foxy with her hand held out to him. It took him longer than it probably should have to register in his brain, but Mike could only sputter in complete shock once he realized she was offering the now-opened package of bandages back to him. Examining all sides of the container, he saw no sign of tearing or anything of the sort.

"Wh-what…?" was the first thing the poor man could manage to get out in his confusion. "How did you…?"

Amused, Foxy broke into a high-pitched laughter, her form quaking with each cackle. Once she thought it had died down, Foxy held up her hook and waved it in the air in front of Mike. The moment she opened her mouth to try and speak, though, she couldn't stop herself from laughing again.

"This— _hahaha_ —I guess this— _haha_ —this old thing comes— _hahahaha—_ comes in handy once in— _haha...ha...ha…"_ Pausing in her speech to make sure her laughter had finally died down completely, Foxy wiped a few tears of mirth from her eyes. She took a deep breath to calm herself, then repeated herself. "As I was tryin' to say—I guess this old thing actually _does_ come in handy once in awhile."

Mike stared at the vixen, then _slowly_ moved his gaze to be looking over at her hook. "You...opened the box," —he pointed a finger to the curved, metal appendage— "With that?"

The light-natured atmosphere of the room seemed to vanish into thin air right then. Suddenly finding herself self-conscious about said appendage once more, Foxy stowed the hook back into her hoodie's pocket. "Yeah, I...I did." A slightly angered edge came to her features then, with the already crimson fur on her face taking an even deeper shade of red. " _Why?_ "

"That's...actually pretty cool."

If Mike thought her face had become as red as it possibly could be when she was angry, boy, did Foxy just prove him wrong. _Is that even how fur's supposed to work?_

"O-oh." It wasn't much, but it was all Foxy could get out.

Pulling the wrapper off of a bandage, Mike quickly applied the thing to his cheek. He patted it twice for reassurance, then stood with a groan from his chair. "Ugh...anyway, uh, Foxy?"

"Mmhm?" Foxy abruptly asked, trying to shake herself from the momentary moment of bashfulness.

The man rubbed the back of his neck, his gaze to the floor. "I should probably, you know, get going home around now. Think I've been here a little longer than my parents would like."

"Wait, what time is it, anyway?" Foxy asked. She broke away from the man for a moment, opening the door that lead back into the gym to check the big clock. Almost instantly, she lunged back into the room. "Well—fuck, Mike."

"...w-what's the time?"

"Well, ya' see, it's...fuck—it's just about to turn 1 AM."

Feet barely touching the ground, Mike quickly grabbed the ice pack from off of the floor, then bolted into the gym. He came to a skidding stop right in front of the hallway door seconds later. "It was nice seeing you, Foxy, _but_ _I gotta go!"_

With a glance over his shoulder, Mike pulled the door open and called back to Foxy, "See you tomorrow morning—" But her name got caught in his throat.

Back over in the storage area, Foxy stood, listening to the man's departure. Though after a few seconds of not hearing the door close behind him, Foxy's curiosity got the best of her and she poked her head through the doorway. She saw Mike standing with his back to her, standing in a position that had half of his body in the gym—the other half in the pitch-black hall.

...wait.

Pitch-black hall?

 _Must've turned the lights off already…_ thought Foxy, shaking her head. With a sigh, she moved from her spot next to Mike's chair and jogged over to him.

"...um, Foxy?"

"Let me guess, you need me to illuminate the hallway for ya'?"

Mike nodded, though he kept his gaze fixated on the vast tunnel of black that looked to stretch on forever in the dark. "I-if it isn't a problem, that is."

"No need to worry, it ain't a big deal," said Foxy, her eyes lighting up as if on cue—which, for all Mike knew, they probably were.

The vixen edged around Mike, and took a few steps down toward the lobby. She looked back at him, the dim, golden beam of light cast by her eyes blinding him temporarily. When she saw Mike still hadn't moved from the doorway; the look of slight hesitance etched onto his face, a low chuckle escaped her lips.

"Well, you comin', Mike? Or am I gonna need to hold your hand?"


	9. Business As Usual

It was around a quarter of an hour later when Mike finally found himself running across the grass to his front door. He gripped the metal handle of the doorknob in his hand but didn't turn it, instead taking the moment to finally catch his breath. If asked how his lungs felt at the moment, Mike would describe it as "like I ran a marathon". Which was partially true. While he generally ran to and from the coliseum already, it hadn't ever really been faster than at a jog. Rainy day aside, of course. So when Mike decided that he needed to actually _run_ most of the way home to save time, plus an all-out _sprint_ once he turned down his street—it was definitely an unpleasant change of pace. Literally.

But he was back home, though, so none of that really mattered anymore. Now, all he had to do was open this door, sneak across the living room, make it downstairs into the basement, then get into his room and in bed before his parents ever realized he had been out so—

—uh oh.

Shocked, Mike's gaze drooped downward to stare at the doorknob in question still held firmly in his fingers. He paused for a second, a breath caught in his throat. He braced himself and turned the knob again…only to confirm for himself that the door was indeed locked.

"Damn!" Mike hissed, yanking his hand away from the handle. He turned on a heel to direct his glare at some houses across the street, where not even a single window was lit-up by interior means. An expectation for this time of night. _Well, at least I know for sure that mom and dad are sleeping… Now I just need to figure out how the hell I'm getting inside._

A brief image of his bedroom window flashed in Mike's mind. A possibility. With steps muffled by the soft grass, he ran through the yard to go around to his side of the house. Halfway there, though, his pace suddenly began to slow down. First to a jogging speed, then to a fast walk. By the time his one-by-two feet basement window came into view, Mike was practically tiptoeing. He took one look at the thing before just slowly shaking his head in disappointment. "Maybe if I was still ten," Mike mumbled, dejectedly turning to walk back to the front door.

Passing the window to his father's office room, Mike continued walking in silence. Suddenly, a memory came roaring back into mind. It was a simple thought—not really anything earth-shattering, but certainly made him feel like a dumbass when it came back to him. Really, he couldn't believe he had actually forgotten about it.

The man hurried over to the door and came to a kneel. In front of it, a custom-made welcome mat sat undisturbed, a pleasant message on its top telling any visitors to the house that "The Schmidt Household Welcomes You." Mike lifted this mat and found exactly what he was looking for: a spare key.

 _Oldest concept in the book_ , thought Mike with a rare smile. He took the key in his fingers, felt the plastic heat up slightly as it scanned his prints, then put it into the keyhole. Before he could even turn the knob, however; the door opened for him.

Standing in the doorway was his mother, an arched eyebrow raised in expectation. She still had on the exact same outfit she wore earlier, so it was apparent that she had been up this whole time—waiting for him to arrive. Hands moving to her hips, she said, "Good to see you're finally home."

* * *

"So...Michael," began Kim Schmidt, her face calm as she sipped away at a mug of coffee. "Mind telling us again why you're only _just_ getting home at, oh...1:30 in the morning?"

"I lost track of time, mostly."

"...mostly...?" Victor asked. A hand slowly moved to hover over his mouth as he let out a soft yawn. A far cry from his business casual attire from earlier, Victor currently wore a loose pair of gym shorts and a t-shirt—apparently he had already fallen asleep at some point, but was then woken up once Mike got home.

Across the dinner table from his mother and bleary-eyed father sat the aforementioned man, with a frozen bag of peas held to his head to replace the lost ice pack. He swallowed nervously, and said, "Yes, _mostly_. There was a bit of a...uh...a bit of a _problem_."

"Well, since your father and I are still awake..." Kim glanced over at her husband, nearly dozing in his chair next to her, and quietly laughed. " _...mostly_ awake. Anyway, get explaining."

Mike leaned back in his chair slightly, and let out a shaky breath of air. "You're not going to like it."

"What I'm not liking right now is your lack of an explanation."

"Fine, fine…" grumbled Mike. Frowning, he dropped the make-shift ice pack down onto the table and leaned forward. "Okay, so...after you guys left, I headed back into the FBF Grand to go find Foxy, right?"

"I assumed so."

"Right—I first looked in the gym area where I most expected to find her. As it turns out, Foxy wasn't in there like I thought she would be. So not finding her there, I then looked in this little closet-like room inside the gym. Since her and I had watched some movies in there I thought…" Mike trailed off when he noticed the sly smile on his mother's face upon her hearing that.

"...movies?" she asked, an eyebrow raised in amusement.

Once again, Mike frowned, frustratedly dragging a palm down his face. "Dear lord—no. _Mom_ ," he said, and shook his head. "Not. Like. That."

"I'm just teasing, Michael! Now where were we...you said you looked in a closet for her?"

"Yes, but that's not where I found her."

"...who…?"

The two looked over to Victor, who had apparently just drifted back into consciousness from a recent nap. He rubbed his eyes with a deep, elongated yawn before repeating his question.

Kim couldn't help but smirk at this. "We're talking about Foxy, dear," she told him, leaning over and kissing him on the cheek.

"...ah..."

"Are you working tomorrow, Vick?"

"Mmhmmm."

Patting his shoulder, Kim said, "Then I think it'd be best if you headed on up to bed, dear. I can handle the rest of this."

She didn't need to tell him twice. Victor groaned and stood up, his chair loudly squeaking on the tile floor from it being pushed back so carelessly. Speed hampered by his grogginess, he trudged with heavy steps up the staircase until he climbed up the last step and disappeared around the corner. Second later the sound of the bed slacking ever-so-slightly under his weight could be heard through the floor.

Mike's gaze hadn't yet left the table, however; he sat still, silently pondering how he could tell his mother about his absolutely horrifying encounter with the gun-wielding man without possibly freaking her out. No matter what he tried to think of—there just wasn't a tactful way of telling someone that "so hey, uh, no big deal or anything, but I kinda almost died earlier today. Yep! That's right; life flashed before my eyes and everything. No big deal, though!"

Truth be told, he had already moved on from the situation for the most part. After all: aside from the bump on the back of his head, he hadn't really suffered much. But just because he didn't think it was that big of a deal didn't mean his mother would feel the same. As Kim's gaze moved away from the top of the staircase and instead back toward him—the man briefly thought about outright lying to her.

"So, Michael...as you were saying?" she asked, in a way that just demanded an answer.

So Mike went on telling her about the events of the night, making sure to leave out any details that he deemed _not vital_ to the retelling. The further he got into the recounting of his encounter with that crazed man in the alley, the more his mother's facial features began to shift to reflect the distraught emotions she currently felt. Her eyebrows furrowed until they made her appear almost _angry_ ; a look that was only intensified by the clenching of Kim's teeth. None of this was lost on Mike. And yes, it _did_ confirm his predictions of how he knew she would react—but he knew that at this point it was already too late to stop telling her.

Kim now knew that over an hour ago, her son nearly died. A man, foolish enough to bet it all on the odds of Mike losing, had put a gun to his head with the intention to shoot. While Kim worried quite often about her son's health, what with the very risk-filled, dangerous career that he had chosen to pursue, she always felt confident that the boy—no, the MAN, would get over any and all obstacles in his path. He was smart, tough, and hard headed as hell. Maybe he was a little too socially outlandish for her liking, but still she felt he was very capable of making it on his own.

But to find out that her very own flesh-and-blood had come _this_ close to dying, and that none of those positive traits of his could have possibly helped him get out of said situation? To say that Kimberly Schmidt felt very displeased was a vast understatement at the moment.

"Hold on, Michael, hold on…." She put a hand up to silence him. After taking a deep, steadying breath, Kim said in a near whisper, "So, let me get this straight. You got held at gunpoint by some crazed lunatic with a gambling problem. And...Foxy, your boxing trainer...ended up saving your tail by whipping the lunatic's ass?"

It wasn't often Mike heard his mother use profanity. As tense as the current situation was, he couldn't help the shadow of a smile on his face. "Not how I would put it, but yeah."

For what seemed like an eternity, Kim didn't speak, her normally bright and cheerful eyes closed tightly. Then, with a look that made even Mike wince, she spoke. " _Michael Theodor Schmidt_."

"Y-yes, mom?"

"Are you going to the arena tomorrow to train with her?"

"Well, uh, yes, but—"

"The _moment_ you see her, you're going to ask if she'd like to come to have dinner with us."

If Mike had been drinking some of his water at that instant, he would have definitely just spat it out. " _What?_ "

"Michael," Kim began, her fierce expression not softening in the slightest. "She _saved_ your _life_."

"But—"

"The _least_ we could do, Michael, is try to repay her."

"But—"

"NO. BUTS."

Mike shook his head and looked down at the table, fists slowly clenching and unclenching as he began to panic. He had never been on a date before, being the introvert he was, but if there was any situation in his life that seemed as if it'd feel like one—this would be it. A date with an animatronic fox. He was...sure...that wasn't what his mother was going for. ...hopefully.

"...doesn't that seem just a little weird to you?" asked Mike, hesitantly glancing at his mother. "I mean...is Foxy even able to eat?"

"As the wife of a man who grew up _obsessed_ with the concepts of animatronics, let me just say that, yes, beings like Foxy _can_ eat. Their designs allow for many processes that one wouldn't say are exactly _necessary_ for machines, but...you'd be surprised."

An unreadable expression briefly flashed on Kim's face before being replaced by the stern look she had before. "And like I said: no buts. Foxy saved your life, Michael. I'm sure you can endure the _embarrassment_ of asking a female to dinner in this case."

"Oh come on, mom."

"And besides," offered Kim, finally bringing the now lukewarm mug of coffee back to her lips. After a long, drawn-out sip, she set the mug down and continued by saying, "Just...pretend like you're asking a nice teacher if she'd like to come meet your parents. Surely that's less weird for you?"

It didn't take too long for Mike to realize that no; it didn't make things any less weird. _Though I guess that IS technically what I'm doing,_ thought Mike while looking down at his hands. As if his body was suddenly remembering what time of night it currently was, his next anxious sigh came out more as a depressed yawn than anything.

Apparently his mother had just remembered what time it was too, as she suddenly stood to close the gap between them and gave him a hug, which he returned. "Well...if you're gonna be training with her tomorrow, then you should probably get to bed soon so you won't be brain dead."

Mike nodded and turned to start trudging down the steps to his room, but was stopped by a hand softly grabbing his shoulder. Hesitantly, he glanced over his shoulder and saw his mother giving him an uncharacteristically pleading look.

"Promise me you'll actually ask her?"

It wasn't exactly an easy promise to make. But with the current situation in mind, AND the thought that Mike didn't _completely_ disagree with his mother about needing to repay Foxy for her selfless deed…it might've just been the most sensible thing to do. Even if he hated to admit it.

Lightly pushing the hand off of his shoulder, Mike couldn't bring himself to look back up at her as he descended the stairs.

"I promise."

* * *

It was back to business the following morning. Though for Mike, work felt twice as challenging as usual. His muscled arms already struggling to completely support his weight, Mike Schmidt kept his fingers firmly wrapped around the bar but let himself hang for a moment as he looked over at the clock.

"Nine o'clock?" he grunted to himself.

Mike gritted his teeth, but forced himself to manage another pull-up. His chin came up just barely an inch above the bar, then, as he slowly drooped back towards the floor, he felts his arms beginning to slightly shake. To make things worse, a bead of sweat got into his eyes. As much as it stung, he was forced to ignore the feeling momentarily as he tried to pull himself up again.

The muscles in his arms flared with a growing fire, and as much he tried and struggled—Mike couldn't bring his chin above the bar. He already couldn't complete the next pull-up. In vain, he sort of just hovered there for a few seconds, the bridge of his nose level with the bar. With enough effort he was somehow able to bring his upper-lip to the bar, but he just couldn't do fully do it. A defeated sigh left Mike as he lowered himself to the padded floor.

Stood a few feet away from him was Foxy, a brow raised in concerned confusion. With soft, muffled footsteps she walked over to him. "I know ya' were late getting home last night and all" —she handed him a towel to wipe away some of the accumulated sweat— "but really. Only _seventeen_ pull-ups?"

Aside from a frown, Mike gave no reply to the comment before wiping the slick sweat from his face. Looking at Foxy with tired eyes, he replied, "Sorry. Didn't get much sleep last night."

"How? Didn't ya' get home at only like...1:30 or so?"

"Earlier. Had to talk to my parents right when I got home, though."

Foxy snorted and gave his shoulder what seemed to her like a light shove. In reality, Mike nearly fell over from the force of it, but just barely managed to keep standing. "Heh—you talk to them all night or something?"

Shaking his head with a single ' _ha!'_ , Mike tiredly set the towel to hang over his shoulder and grabbed a water bottle off the nearby bench. The cap came off with little to no resistance, and he downed the contents of the bottle in only a few seconds. He then said, "They just wanted to talk to me about what last night."

An expression of mild confusion reappeared on Foxy's face. "I thought ya' already talked to them about that after the match. Didn't ya'?" she asked.

"It wasn't the match they wanted to talk about, Foxy. It was about what happened...well, _after_."

"O-oh." Suddenly Foxy looked sheepish—an emotion that didn't really fit the confident image that Mike had of her. Almost as if it was by instinctive, Foxy nonchalantly hid her hook behind her back.

Just her look alone made Mike regret bringing up the talks with his mother the night before. And if he had to be entirely honest with himself, he wasn't really...comfortable with the sudden change in mood. He needed to change topic. Fast. Suddenly, he remembered the water bottle in his hand. _Aha!_

Mike tipped the bottle in his hand over to get the last few drops out, then looked at Foxy expectantly. "Hey, uh...mind if I go refill this?" he asked, motioning the empty container towards her. "Accidentally drank all of it already."

"What did they, er... _think,_ about that little incident with the psycho...?"

 _There goes changing the topic, I guess,_ thought Mike with a barely restrained curse. He avoided eye contact with Foxy and replied, "W-well—they were worried, of course!"

Huffing, Foxy's face was a deeper shade of red as she said, "No shit, Mike. What else was there?"

"Nothing."

" _Mike_."

" _NOTHING._ "

Mike was shocked by the sound of his own outburst, and by the looks of it—Foxy was, too. The animatronic vixen visibly flinched from the near-shouting, her maw slightly agape, and had abandoned trying to hide the hook behind her, instead having it and her hand hang idly at her sides. This taken back look remained on her face for several seconds before it slowly transitioned into a look of pure, boiling anger. Foxy did _not_ appreciate being yelled at. Somehow, as if a middle-finger was just raised to any and all sense of logic; her face grew an even _deeper_ crimson with her growing rage.

Right before Foxy exploded—probably even quite literally—Mike surprised her again.

"I'm...sor—just...fuck, man…." Mike said, attempting to get an apology out. After ending up just stumbling over his words in his state of panic/frustration, Mike paused and took in a deep, shaking breath through his mouth. He held it in for a few seconds, then slowly, _slowly_ let the air back out through his nose.

"Look, Foxy…" —he let out another deep sigh— "I-I'm sorry. I generally have somewhat of good control over my temper but...I don't know." He gave her a shy smile, and admitted, "Truth be told, I didn't get to sleep until sometime like 4:30 in the morning. Guess the exhaustion is getting to me a little."

For a time, Foxy's expression remained stuck somewhere between anger and neutralness. She simply stared at Mike until seconds later he nervously turned his gaze toward the floor, and even then she still continued looking at him.

Then, in the blink of an eye, Foxy stepped forward and slugged Mike in the shoulder with a balled fist. _Hard._ While hits with that much force generally didn't hurt _too_ much for the man—boxing had heightened his tolerance to pain, after all—the fact that the shoulder hit had already sustained several hard hits the night before and was now BRUISED, meant that Mike's reaction was a little more dramatic than Foxy had _probably_ anticipated.

"Ya— _ow_! What the _HELL_?!" cried Mike, reaching up with a hand to rub the aching joint.

Foxy simply smirked, and stuck out a tongue in a manner similar to how a child would after winning an argument. "Apology accepted," she stated.

Mike only grumbled in response.

"Now, getting back on topic," Foxy began, a serious expression returning to her face. "Why the _fuck_ did you only get to sleep at near FIVE in the MORNING? Were you seriously talking to your parents for _that_ long?"

"No, not really."

"Then what was the issue?"

It was now that Mike knew he was going to have to bring up what his mother had told him to do. No matter how embarrassing it might end up being—Michael Schmidt was no liar. "I was...worried...about what my mom and I had talked about."

"What do ya' mean?" Foxy asked, arching a brow.

Mike took a deep breath, and said, "Well, after my mom found out that you pretty much saved my life…"

"...yes…?"

"She kinda, sorta...maybe asked me to…"

"...go on…"

"Asked to possibly...perhaps even…"

" _Mike._ "

"—yeah?"

"Just spit it out."

 _Here goes nothing,_ thought Mike. "Look. My mom asked me to…" —he gulped, and swallowed his pride— "...s-see if you would like to come have dinner with our family tonight."

"..."

Doing his best to ignore the growing flushness of his face, Mike continued by saying, "My mom wanted to thank you for doing what you did, and figured this would be the best way of doing it." Then, with a small smile, he added, "Plus she's a pretty huge fan of yours."

That last part didn't get the reaction he had been hoping for out of her, nor did it seem to really lighten the mood. At the moment, Foxy had this look on her face that Mike couldn't really decipher. It looked somewhat _uncomfortable_ , but that wasn't all that was there as far as he could tell. Then again, Mike wasn't exactly an expert on reading expressions—let alone those of an animatronic fox.

Suddenly, Foxy turned her back to him. She took a shaky breath, and then stated, "Michael."

Mike was taken aback slightly by the usage of his full first name, but didn't mention it. "Yes?" he asked.

"You...do...realize that I've never...actually _had_ dinner, or even really _eaten_ with anybody else before...right?" she asked, her voice a near whisper. "Let alone with humans…"

Yes, actually. Mike sort of figured that. What he _hadn't_ seen coming, though, was her reaction to him asking. Really, Mike had expected to ask her and then have her laugh it off as weird, then ask him, " _Really? Are you actually serious right now, man? Just get back to work, you fuckin' weirdo."_

In all actuality—Foxy now looked downright _terrified._ _Well, this is going downhill,_ Mike thought. _And fast._

Clearing his throat, Mike eventually piped up. "Well, I, uh, sort of thought that might've been a...uh, a possibility."

He didn't like the fact that Foxy looked like she was actually _shaking_ at this point, but he felt he had to continue. What would his mom do if he came home and told her Foxy said no? She probably wouldn't even believe him! So as much as Mike hated it—he had to try.

"...listen—my mom—she's...she's really thankful for what you did, Foxy," said Mike, his throat suddenly tight. He ignored the feeling, though, and continued, "She j-just wants to be able to personally...I don't know—THANK you for saving my ass."

Again, Foxy was quiet, fiddling nervously with her hook while her back was still turned to him.

Mike pressed on. "You don't...really _have_ to say 'yes', Foxy." He laughed almost silently, then said, "But like I said. My mom's a huge fan of yours...and...well, I'm sure she'd really appreciate it."

And with that—he was done. Mike would try his best to appease his mother, sure. But he wasn't about to beg for it. Now it was up to Foxy to decide if she really wanted to go or not.

"I…" Foxy finally turned back toward Mike, though her eyes were closed tightly. "I don't know, Mike. I'll—I'll consider it, I guess."

"So will you need my... phone number or something?"

"No—I mean—yes, I will. Now, come on and follow me for a second."

Mike arched a brow. "Where are we going?" he asked.

Foxy turned and started walking toward the exit of the gym. "You'll see," she said. "Now come on! As of right now—practice today is over."


	10. Home, Bittersweet Home

The next few minutes passed in silence. From what Mike could tell—continuing to loosely follow Foxy down the arena's left curved corridor—the two of them were headed in the general direction of the door leading outside. And during this walk, that was pretty much where Mike figured they were going. This was proven wrong, however, when they stopped a few doors short of that exit.

This door, like most of the other ones in the arena, was not labeled by any sort of sign. No, instead what set this certain door apart from others was a simple strip of red tape wrapped around the door handle. _Has that always been there?_ Mike wondered, thinking back to the previous times he'd gone through this hallway. He couldn't remember ever noticing it before.

After a moment of brief hesitation, Foxy pulled the door open just wide enough for her and slipped inside. If Mike hadn't been paying attention just then, he might've walked right into the door as she started closing it behind her. He loudly cleared his throat to catch her attention.

"What—oh!" hummed Foxy, jumping in place. She quietly laughed, then pushed the door open to let Mike in. "Forgot ya' were there for a second, my bad."

With a dismissive wave of his hand Mike told her it wasn't a big deal, and he peered inside to see what was within the room. It wasn't a room, though. Dimly lit by a failing ceiling lamp, the thin passage lead a short ways forward, then went downward a bit via a descending carpeted staircase that ended in yet another doorway. Strangely, the carpet in this part of the building was a faded blood red, as opposed to the arena's usual green theme. Mike considered asking Foxy _why_ exactly this was, but decided against it as he followed a few feet behind her.

Suddenly, his phone vibrated. Retrieving the device from his pocket, Mike powered the screen. It was a text from his mother.

"...I'm picking you up after today's workout…?" Mike read, cocking an eyebrow.

A few feet ahead of him, Foxy stopped herself from opening the door and glanced over her shoulder. "Hm?"

Mike looked up from the illuminated screen and shook his head at her. "Nothing," he said. "Just a text from my mom."

"Ah." Foxy once again reached for the handle, but paused with her hand still inches from it. "Ya' know...you should probably let her know that workout ended early today."

Mike nodded and sent his reply. Stowing the phone back into his sweatpants, he followed Foxy into the next area.

Here, the pleasant scent of lavender that usually occupied the FBF's interior was gone; replaced by a stale, musty smell that Mike could only describe as 'old house smell'. While it wasn't enough to make him gag or anything like that—it did certainly deepen the frown already on his face. Moving on from the unpleasant smell, the wall on the right was lined with three worn-red colored wooden doors, each one spaced around five feet apart from the other. A fourth one also sat at the end of this passage, though it had a large, jagged _F_ carved into its wooden surface. As the two of them came to a standstill, Mike could feel the eerie silence slowly creeping up on him.

"Where are we?" asked Mike.

Foxy slowly turned on a heel to face Mike. Even though she was smiling, it wasn't at all the confident smirk she usually had on her face. Her vulpine features lacked any sort of happiness. "This..." whispered Foxy, motioning all around the passage with her hand, "...this is my home."

Nervously rubbing the back of his neck, Mike looked desperately for something in the hall to look at so he wouldn't have to see Foxy's sorrowful yellow eyes. He settled on one of the doors.

"It's...well, you see…it's…" Mike trailed off, searching for a word that wouldn't sound too harsh.

"Shitty?"

Mike recoiled back slightly, but reluctantly nodded in agreement.

"There's no need to try and sugarcoat it, Mike," said Foxy. She snickered, shaking her head. "I've lived here long enough to know _exactly_ what my situation is...what it's been since the old days."

"You've lived here for...what, over thirty years now?"

Foxy nodded, turning to start walking to toward the door at the end of the hall. "Nearly forty years, actually. Me and the other animatronics. Though…" —she pointed her hook at the doors to her right— "... _those_ three have been empty for the last...thirty years..."

As much as he wanted to say something to express how sorry he felt for her, Mike had to face the reality that 1) he wasn't used to being emotional or tender, and 2) that even if he _was_ used to being like that—it wouldn't really help here. Yes, he _did_ feel terrible for Foxy (and the other animatronics, by extension), but what could he say that would undo them having to live in such a shithole?

The sound of a door being opened brought Mike out of his thoughts. He turned his head and noticed Foxy was going into her room and he hurriedly strode over to catch up with her. Foxy rotated to look at him, apparently having heard him coming.

"Enough of all the sourpuss shit, though. Mike, welcome to Casa de Foxy!" she announced with an over dramatic waving of her hand. "...or however the hell you'd say it..."

Glancing over his shoulder in some odd sense of paranoia, Mike took note that nobody had suddenly appeared at the foot of the stairs and that all three doors were still closed—and quickly followed Foxy into the room. The moment he saw the interior, however; his jaw immediately swung to the floor.

Books. Dear lord, there were so many books; against one of the walls, five plastic 40-50 gal. totes had been filled to the brim and above with books of different lengths and genres. Mike couldn't even guess how many books must've been in the huge collection, but if he had to—he would say more than 500 books. _Has she read all of those?_ Mike asked himself, eyes still wide from shock. Against another wall there was an old wooden dresser, and on it an ancient "tubebox" television and combo DVD player/VCR. Across from this dresser and in a corner of the room lay Foxy's bed, comfortable and blankets still neatly made, as if they had never been undone at all.

Speechless, Mike turned to look at Foxy, who just sheepishly avoided eye-contact by looking down at the carpet beneath her shoes. "Just uh...just...h-have a seat on the bed, I-I guess."

His gaze alternated from Foxy, to her bed—it lingered there for a longer time, then it shifted back to Foxy. Rolling his shoulders to try and ease the anxiety currently building in his chest, Mike stiffly nodded, then sunk down onto the firm bedding in much the same manner.

For the next minute or so, silence hung in the air like an uncomfortable chill. Mike didn't like it. Even though he generally preferred not to speak if possible, something about the moments where neither of them said anything between them didn't feel right. During the week that she had spent training him to take on Toy Chica again, there were almost never times when she wasn't chattering on about some past match of hers, or something of the like. It wasn't like the vixen to not talk. _She must be really nervous about this whole deal,_ Mike thought, gripping the fabric of the comforter in his hands.

Hesitantly, Mike began, "So, um, your place—"

"Yep, I know, I know—the room's not that big, sorry—"

"No! No, no, it's not that. I mean—yeah, it's a bit _small_ , I guess—but it's...um..." Mike's speech faltered a bit as he tried to express his thought. He gulped, and a few seconds of consideration later. he eventually he quietly finished, saying, "...i-it's comfortable."

"O-oh."

There was that frigid atmosphere of stillness again.

Gritting his teeth, Mike looked around the room again for something to bring up. _Aha!_ thought Mike. _The books!_

"I—uh, noticed you have a lot of books, Foxy."

The animatronic perked up, looking at him again with that familiar boldness. "Yep!" she exclaimed, smirking. "I'm what ya' might call a _bookworm_ , really."

"Cool. I like books a little myself, actually." Glad that the ice seemed to have been broken—if at least temporarily—Mike's lips curled upward into a barely noticeable grin. "Any favorite genre?"

"Well, I've read a little bit o' everything, really—and liked at least _one thing_ from every genre—even those real obscure sub-genres like _Biopunk_ and _Shenmo_ —"

Mike cocked a brow. What the fuck was _Biopunk?_ Or even _Shenmo, for that matter?_ He knew she had said they were _obscure_ subgenres, but he figured she meant like _Steampunk_ or something.

"But I GUESS if I had to choose a favorite genre..." began Foxy, momentarily turning her back to Mike as she walked over to one of the book-filled totes. She rifled through the literally _hundreds_ of paperbacks and hardcovers until she let out a satisfied laugh, and pulled a decent-sized hardcover out, paying absolutely no mind to the three or four books that had clattered to the carpet in the commotion. Foxy thrust the book toward Mike, who took it in hand and reoriented it until he could see the cover correctly.

It was definitely an old book—not ancient, maybe, but still fairly old. Parts of the cover had worn away over the years after its initial printing, but despite those bits of wear-and-tear, Mike could still make out what the title said.

"2001...A Space Odyssey," Mike read out loud. He looked back up at Foxy, who still stood a few feet away by the monstrous collection of books. "...science-fiction?"

She nodded fervently. "Mhmm! Not really my _favorite_ sci-fi story I guess, but to deny it's a classic would be _outrageous_."

"I'll take your word for it."

"What do ya' mean?" asked Foxy, tilting her head in confusion.

Mike shrugged. "Haven't read the book," he stated. He thought for a second, then added, "I _have_ seen the movie though! If the book version of it is as good as the movie, then yeah—it's definitely a classic, then."

The vixen let out a quiet snort then, and snatched the book from him with a speed that actually made him flinch a bit. She turned to put the book back into its respective tote.

"I—um...I actually...haven't...seen the movie," Foxy admitted in a slightly ashamed tone.

"Really?"

She slowly nodded.

"Well...then I guess you can watch it at my house tonight." Two WHOLE seconds passed before Mike even realized _what_ he had just said. _Shit. Fuck, fuck, fuck..._ Shifting uncomfortably on the bed's comforter, he cleared his throat way too loudly, and with his gaze glued to the floor, he mumbled, "That is...i-if you actually DO come over later, I-I mean…."

His eyes were brought back to Foxy when he heard a deep sigh leave her. Foxy was looking straight at him, her vulpine features fixed into an unreadable expression. "Mike," she stated, her voice soft.

To signal that he heard her, Mike raised a brow—otherwise remaining silent and still.

Foxy let out another breath of air. "...just, please...understand that it's—it's nothing against you or your family. I'm only hesitant to say yes to coming over for dinner because…"

"Because you've never ate a meal with others before, I know," Mike said. "You told me—"

"IT'S NOT JUST THAT!" shouted Foxy. Her volume shocked Mike, that was for sure—he was actually leaning so far back on the bed now that he was only inches away from just laying down on it. Not only did it surprise him, though; it also did her.

Eyes wide, Foxy froze, gulped. Taking a deep and shuddering breath, she looked away from him and said, "S-sorry…but it's… it's _not_ just that, Mike…"

The bed creaked a little under Mike's weight. Having mostly recovered from the shock a few seconds later, he slowly returned to his previous sitting position on the bed. He awkwardly cleared his throat.

"I-if you don't mind me asking," said Mike, mentally scolding himself for not controlling that nervous stutter. "What... _is_ it, then?"

"..."

Getting no further comment from Foxy, Mike quietly cursed and shook his head. _Well, this has officially gone to shit._ He sighed, and searched for something in the room to take his attention. Not even a second later—he found something. On a nightstand situated about a foot or two away from him, next to the bed, was a book that he hadn't seen yet. With a quick glance to Foxy, who still stood with her gaze to the floor, he reached over to the nightstand and picked up the book.

"The first novel of the Black Dagger Brotherhood," read Mike from the cover. _Never heard of_ that _series. Some sort of fantasy thing?_ He continued reading, and the moment the next words came out of his mouth, he had to actively try and keep a goofy smile from forming out of how ridiculous they sounded to him. "Dark...Lover...?"

While Foxy hadn't _moved_ much, at least the expression on her face had lessened a tad. "Mmhm," she hummed lowly. "The book I've been reading for a couple of days now. Vampires and all that crap."

"Ah."

Mike quirked a brow and opened to the first page. Unsurprisingly, it didn't open to the actual _story_ immediately; instead starting with the usual copyright and publishing bullshit. Blowing out a puff of air, he skipped forward a page and got to a summary and a section called "Praise for Dark Lover" _._ He quickly skimmed through the summary, and upon reaching the end, paused—then read through it once more.

"...what's with that look?" Foxy asked.

Shaking his head, Mike looked up at her and frowned. "Nothing. It just...has this weird vibe to it," he said, then returned his gaze to the page.

Foxy, despite the raging hurricane of negative emotions swirling through her being, couldn't help but nearly snicker from seeing how the usually stoic man reacted to the summary alone. Who knew how he'd react to any of the more... _touchy_ parts?

Apparently, Foxy was about to get a first-hand look at how he would react to such parts, as Mike suddenly flipped to a random page and began reading. For the longest time, his face remained in the concentrated, near-glare state that it was generally in. As Foxy inconspicuously watched, though, his expression slowly began to...change.

The further he got down the page, the more his eyes began to widen. Whether it was in shock or in horror...Foxy couldn't tell. The man's brows gradually rose higher and higher, creasing his forehead, and as if the temperature in the room had suddenly gone up twenty degrees—his face flushed a deep red, beads of sweat occasionally rolling down his forehead.

A minute later he stopped reading. Without a word, Mike returned the book onto its original spot on the nightstand.

Foxy on the other hand was fucking _dying_ with hysterical cackling. Hunched over on the ground, her arched back tremored with each laugh.

"Oh-oh my fucking...ahaha, my-my fucking _GOD_ , Mike," she cackled. Foxy tried to force some more words out, but just ended up breaking out into even more laughter.

"What!?" exclaimed Mike, his face flushed an even darker red out of the added embarrassment.

Calming down just a little bit, Foxy wiped some tears of mirth out of her eyes and said, "It's just...your reaction to seeing what's in the book, was j-just—aha _hahaHAHA."_ While it seemed like her laughter had finally began to die down a little, it suddenly came roaring back with a resurging, joyous energy.

Mike silently sat with arms crossed. He wasn't exactly jumping for joy to be the butt of some strange joke to Foxy, but...at least she wasn't miss sally sob story anymore. And that was enough to make bring a weak smile to his face. _Maybe if I ask her_ now, _she'll actually give me an answer,_ Mike thought, coming to a realization.

"Ha. Yes, absolutely HILARIOUS," grumbled Mike. He grinned, then said, "But at least I'm not the animatronic reading what's essentially _porn._ "

That certainly killed her laughter. Foxy's face was now an even deeper shade of crimson than when she was laughing. "That's _not_ why I'm reading it!" she retorted.

"Mm."

"I'm serious!"

"I'm sure."

Foxy put on a toothy smirk, and said, "I just like the story is all."

Chuckling, Mike shook his head. "Yep. Anyway...could you please answer me now?"

"What do you me—oh." Foxy's speech faltered as the somber expression returned to her face a bit. For a second, Mike thought she was about to give him the silent treatment again. Then she spoke.

"The reason I'm hesitant to accept your family's offer to have dinner tonight, is because I'm…" —Foxy paused for a second, and took a deep breath— "I'm absolutely terrified to be around humans."

"...what?" was all Mike could respond with. How the hell else would he reply to that?

Foxy simply nodded.

"Just...why?"

"Why _not_ , Mike? Look at me—I'm...I'm a fucking FREAK!" Foxy exclaimed, motioning down her body with her hook and hand. "Not only am I a mechanical fox, one with enough self-awareness to know I'm not natural...I'm a mechanical fox with a...a…."

Foxy took a seat next to Mike and raised the curved metal appendage into the air in front of her, slowly turning it to watch the light shine along its surface. "With a fucking _hook_ for a hand," she whispered.

"I used to be a hero, a long time ago," Foxy began, her voice still a hoarse whisper. "Back then, the defenders: Chica, Bonnie, and of course Freddy were seen as the villains. I was the good guy. The one all the children used to love and look up to. An idol. I had no problem with humans back then, even with me still having been an animatronic. It just didn't really...affect me back then, I guess.

"Since I was the hero—the difference didn't bother me. But that all changed when…." She looked back down at the hook on her lap again. Mike couldn't help but notice that this time, instead of it being a look of sadness on her face—it was one of deep-rooted frustration. It was only then that it fully hit him. Foxy was a boxer at heart, and ever since she had lost the hand—it was like a vital part of her was gone. Taken from her.

Swallowing hard, Mike clenched his hands on the comforter beneath him. "I...don't really relate all too much to what you're feeling, Foxy," he began. "But I guess I can sort of understand why you feel how you do."

Foxy didn't turn to look at him, but Mike could tell by the light twitch of her ears that she was at least listening.

"But...Foxy. You know I'm not a liar, so believe me when I say that you won't have to worry about anything going wrong like that." Mike had never been much of a talker, but despite the awkwardness that he was beginning to feel the more he spoke—he continued anyway. "Like I already said; my mom _loves_ you! She grew up back when you were around and in your prime. Do you really think the fact that you have a hook is going to bother her in the _slightest_?"

"...not really…."

"There you go. It'll go fine, Foxy," assured Mike. "You have nothing to be worried about."

"I...I don't know, Mike."

Feeling his phone vibrate in his pocket, Mike quickly retrieved it and read the received text. "My mom just got here," he stated. He let out a sigh, and asked, "So...what do you say?"

"Mike, I…" —Foxy rolled her jaw and took a shaky breath— " _I just don't know_. Maybe."

The bed groaned a bit as Mike stood, lifting his weight off of it. He turned to look back at Foxy. "Just this once," he said. "I-if you don't enjoy it tonight, then...then we can just drive you back whenever you want, I suppose. I'll never ask to do this type of thing again, and...and we'll just go back to business as usual—pretend it never happened."

Foxy shut her eyes with a conflicted expression. She trusted that Mike wasn't outright lying to her about his mom being a fan, but part of her was still apprehensive about leaving the arena. It was her home, afterall. She felt _safe_ here. But...what did she really have to _lose_ trying to go out and socialize a little? Mike wasn't a bad person. A little strange, maybe—as stoic and unsociable as he could be at times—but he wasn't too bad. So how horrible could his family really _be_?

Swallowing hard, Foxy clenched her shaking hand to the point of it nearly creaking. "Alright," she whispered. "I'll go."

Mike smiled. "Good. Now...is there anyway I can really, uh, _contact_ you from there?"

Nodding, Foxy pointed to her nightstand, where Mike realized he had for some reason not noticed an ancient phone set—sitting mere inches from where he had set that _accursed_ book. Foxy cleared her throat and said, "It's an old phone Mr. Fazbear used to use whenever I had a match back in the day. Still works, though."

After she recited the number to Mike, he registered the number into his cellphone and stowed it back into his pocket. He turned, opened the door leading out into the hallway, and stepped outside. Right when he was about to shut it behind him though, he found himself stopping for some reason. After a lingering moment of reluctance—he leaned back into the room.

"And...if it makes you feel any better, Foxy," he began. "I can never thank you enough for giving me the opportunity to chase my dream. You're a...," —he nearly fainted as the next words left his mouth— "...a...you're a good f-friend, Foxy…. Your hook doesn't change that."

And with that, he swiftly turned and jogged toward the stairs.


	11. Dinner Night - Part 1

The Schmidt household, despite being headed by the CEO of a large and very prominent electronics company, wasn't that much different interior-wise from the houses of other upper-middle-class citizens. Sure, there were one or two more luxury items than one would generally find in the average home, but for the most part—one would be hard-pressed to distinguish it from a "normal house". And the bathrooms were no exception to this.

For example, in the upstairs bathroom one would find all the usual toiletries: shampoo, conditioner, body wash, shaving cream—the list goes on. They would find a toilet (duh), a shower/bath tub (also duh), and a sink (obviously). And, if one were to look in the mirror hung on the wall just above the sink, they would see the reflection of a man with shaving cream slathered on his face. A very frustrated looking Mike Schmidt.

Rolling his jaw in irritation, he put the razor to his face and began killing off the beginnings of what could have been a great beard, if given more time to grow.

"Such bullshit…" Mike grumbled, turning his head a bit to get a better angle.

He had been driven home from the arena hours before by his mother. After eating some lunch and taking a quick shower, Mike had eventually settled with sitting down in his room to watch a movie. A rather dramatic boxing-based movie, to be particular. When _that_ movie ended, he simply put in _another_ movie. Hours later his mother barged into the basement room, telling him to begin getting ready for dinner.

"What do you mean?" he had asked.

His mother had left the room, but yelled out to him from the stairs, saying, "Take another shower—I know you took one earlier, but wash _very_ thoroughly this time. Shave whatever stubble you have, and most importantly: put on some nice clothes."

"What—why?"

"Because I don't want to seem like slobs to our guest tonight, Michael! Now get going!"

So he did. Though it took nearly twice as long, this shower was just as uneventful as the first one. And while it pissed him off that he already had to get rid of his facial hair—having wanted a beard for several years—here he was, anyway. Begrudgingly shaving it off before it even began.

Once Mike was sure he hadn't missed any spots, turning his head this way and that to scan his jawline and chin, he set the razor down. Somehow, Mike managed to not cut himself this time. Not a single nick! After splashing some warm water onto his face to get rid of any leftover hairs, Mike looked at himself in the mirror and had to admit—

He didn't actually look horrible.

Sure there were a couple of bruises remaining on his face from his match the day before, and there was that cut still, but at least he hadn't lost any teeth to that chick. And with no blackeye to speak of, Mike felt pretty lucky. Of course, Mike's chest and shoulders were a completely different story in this, but that wasn't surprising to him in the slightest. At least he healed fast.

Stepping out of the bathroom, Mike strode down two flights of stairs and mentally prepared himself for the third—and hopefully final—part of preparing for the dinner. Even when compared to shaving those all too youthful hair follicles, this last part was what he was looking forward to the absolute _least_. Dressing up. Mike _shivered_ at the mere idea itself.

Shutting the bedroom door behind him, Mike walked over to his closet and scowled. His hands moved to take hold of the doorknob, but he stopped there.

Honestly, now that he really thought about it...he wasn't even sure if he _had_ what could be considered "dress clothing". Mike generally wore just a t-shirt and a pair of gym shorts; which were replaced by sweat pants whenever it got too chilly. His policy for clothing had always been prioritizing function over fashion, and as such he felt uncomfortable in anything too frilly. He wasn't about to argue with his mother though ( _especially_ with the dinner happening later), so after taking a deep inhale through his nose—Mike pulled open and stepped into the walk-in closet.

His suspicion was quickly confirmed. Even after thoroughly checking in between each and every hung up shirt, the best that Mike could find was a tacky sweater from years back. And it was a _good_ thing that he hadn't worn the thing in such a long time. Mike tossed it out onto his bed, telling himself that he'd throw the thing out the next chance he got. He resumed his fruitless search.

Of course, Mike _did_ find an old dress shirt eventually. Buried deep in one of a few bins of extra clothes he had set on a closet shelf, there was a midnight blue button-up shirt. But the smile that had formed on Mike's face then only lasted a second, because as he quickly discovered—the damn thing was nearly three sizes too small.

"Shit..." whispered Mike. He held the article of clothing up to his chest and let out a low whistle. "No wonder it ended up in that box."

With an amused shake of his head Mike lifted the shirt up to discard it back in the bin, but then stopped. Suddenly an idea came to mind. It was a dumb little thing, but even then...Mike couldn't help his laughing as he started unbuttoning the shirt.

* * *

The pleasant aroma of chicken cooking in the oven brought a smile to Kim Schmidt's face. A favorite dish of hers since childhood—baked chicken was often something she cooked when the family didn't go out that night. And while her husband had initially suggested having something like steak, or even lobster for their guest tonight, Kim had stoutly disagreed. Having plenty of experience being a guest at somebody else's house, she didn't want Foxy to feel like she was making them spend a lot of money.

With her husband's position in his company, the two of them had often ended up having dinner at the house of another employee, or that of a different company's CEO. And every single time—Kim had felt like a burden. A house that would generally serve something like spaghetti would instead serve some expensive gourmet dish while they were there.

"Foxy will feel welcome in our home..." mumbled Kim, her high heels clacking as she walked over to the sink and washed her hands. "...even if it kills me..."

Seconds later, she heard footsteps quickly coming up the basement stairs.

Kim turned to greet whoever it was, but the speech died in her mouth once she saw it was her son turning the corner to the kitchen. Though, it wasn't it being _him_ that caught her off-guard so much. It was what he was _wearing._

That...that dark blue button-up shirt, one she hadn't seen Mike wear since he like eleven, was stretched and distorted so much by his muscular build that parts of the shirts were already tearing under the built-up pressure. It was practically _begging_ to explode at any second now.

"Michael, just... _what_?" stammered Kim, facepalming.

Mike said nothing to that. Instead, the mild smile on his face just broadened in response.

Taking a deep breath, Kim shook her head and mumbled, "Just...just tell me something."

"Yes?"

" _WHY?"_

Mike started laughing, and from there the chain reaction of his shirt's rapid deterioration began. A loud _RIP_ erupted throughout the kitchen as more and more of the shirt tore open to reveal his flesh underneath. First one button flew off. Then another. Within seconds it had gone from being an overly stretched shirt—to simply being a tattered collection of strings and cloth.

During that rather chaotic event, Kim had just stood there in silent awe. There were no words for what had just happened. Well, no _decent_ words, anyway. Mrs. Schmidt wasn't one for vulgar language. Mike on the other hand, was simply hysterical with laughter. His chest ached from the howling (and the remains of the poor shirt still clinging to his torso didn't help much either), but honestly...Mike didn't care. How long had it been since he last _laughed_ this hard?

Near a minute passed before the man got a break. Wiping a tear from his eye, Mike bent over slightly and put his hands on the countertop to support himself. He whooped softly, a toothy grin on his face as he looked back at his mom.

That look alone was enough to bring a smile to Kim's face.

"Please...Michael, could you tell me WHY it felt necessary to do that? You _know_ I'm gonna have to clean all that up before Foxy gets here, now," she stated, trying and failing to force a frown at that last part.

"Sorry," said Mike. "Just...wanted to show you what my best option for _formal_ clothing was."

"Really?"

Mike nodded, not giving a verbal response due to his currently being busy with the removal of the dress shirt's pitiful remains.

Frowning, Kim hummed in thought. "Hm...have you asked dad if he had anything in your size?"

"Nope."

"Then I would definitely suggest doing so."

With a nod, Mike turned to start searching for his father, but felt a hand softly grip his shoulder. He glanced over it to see his mother looking at him with a pleading expression.

"Listen, Michael...I know you're not exactly the type of person to wear a suit and tie every day of the week, but I just...just…" Kim trailed off, searching for the most fitting way to phrase it.

Having noticed how antsy his mother had been in preparation for the dinner tonight, Mike was able to easily finish her thought. "...really want our family to make a good first impression tonight?"

"Yes! Yes, exactly."

Mike gently pushed her hand off of his shoulder. "Don't worry, mom. It'll go fine."

"Right, right…" mumbled Kim with a slow nod. Anxiously rolling her shoulders, she spun around, and her heels clacked once more against the kitchen tile as she walked back to the counter, where there was bag of vegetables ready to be washed and cut up. As she picked up the large chopping knife, Kim looked up once more, watching her son disappear into the living room behind the partial wall.

* * *

"How about...this?"

Standing near his closet, Victor Schmidt held up a transparent garment bag in front of him toward Mike. For the past five or so minutes, the two of them had already gone through ten different suits. Each one looked quite literally identical to the last, but as Victor had put it: "trust me, with each one there are small, but very important differences to be seen."

After looking this specific suit over twice, Mike shook his head again and asked, "Are you sure you haven't already shown me this one?"

"Absolutely, positively sure."

"Hm," Mike grunted an affirmance, then examined this particular tux once more. Nothing. He could spot _no_ difference between this one and any of the other ones. It was the same gray. The tie was the exact same black, too. He frowned and looked back to his dad. "...you sure…?"

Then, surprising him, Victor let out a snort and smiled. "Maybe?"

"Dad."

"Haha—you know I'm just messing with ya'," said Victor, softly chuckling to himself. "Although...maybe I _did_ grab the wrong suit…"

" _Dad._ "

"Kidding! Kidding. Just trying to lighten the mood a bit before we have to go pick that trainer of yours up in a while, you know? You would not _believe_ how stressed your mom has been about this whole thing…" Victor mumbled, rolling his eyes with a low whistle.

That made Mike smile. "I've seen."

"Figured you would have," admitted Victor. He smiled, then handed the garment bag over to Mike. "Anyway...does this one look good to you?"

"Yes, dad. Hell, I said the first one looked good to me."

"I know, it's just—I sometimes forget you're not the 'businessman' that I am," said the man, his normally gleeful blue eyes suddenly losing that usual brightness. "Suits aren't exactly what you wear on a near daily basis."

Mike grabbed the bag from him and let it drape over his arm. "Business just isn't my thing. You know that, dad. I'm a boxer."

"Son, we've already had this argument before, trust me—I'm well aware of your choice in career."

"Mhmm."

"Anyway, speaking of—you call your trainer yet? We gotta be heading out soon."

"Not...yet..." Mike reluctantly answered, rubbing the back of his head. To be perfectly honest, he had actually almost forgotten about that part. For some reason it...actually made him feel bad. It was still a pretty foreign concept to consider Foxy as a friend, but the realization that she had almost completely slipped his mind brought a strange sour feeling to his gut.

Seemingly unaware to the conflict within the young man's head, Victor shooed him out with an over-exaggerated sweep of his hands. "Well, get goin', then!" he commanded. "I have to get dressed too, you know!"

If it hadn't been for the feeling of distress in him, Mike might've gotten a laugh out of that. He remained solemnly silent as he jogged down the stairs to his room. Shutting the door behind him, Mike dropped the garment bag onto his comforter and slumped down next to it. His hands clenched and unclenched. It felt like he was trying to swallow a rock as he gulped. _Why do I feel so...guilty for such a minor thing?_ Mike wondered, furrowing his brow.

 _What the hell's happened to me?_

An image of Foxy popped into his mind then, and suddenly he was reminded that he was supposed to be _doing_ something at the moment. He pushed himself to his feet, and although his mind was still currently whirling—he grunted, and unzipped the garment bag. The suit didn't look half bad. Sure, it was a tiny bit itchy. It felt a little tight, well—almost everywhere—but that didn't surprise Mike at all. Even though his dad _did_ have a similar build to him; with Mike being an athlete, it was obvious that he was going to be quite a bit bulkier than him. And in a suit that had been tailored to perfectly fit his father's proportions, that didn't leave him too much breathing room. It worked, though. And that was what mattered the most at the moment.

Mike now stood, checking himself over in the mirror. Still didn't consider himself a _formal clothing_ type of person (and doubted he ever would), but Mike didn't think he looked much like a "slob", at least. Mother appeasal? Check. That just left one thing. Calling Foxy. Easier said than done for Mike, but he was committed at this point.

Picking his cell phone up off the nightstand, he activated the screen and went to the contacts. Mike hovered a shaking finger over the screen. He clenched his eyes, mentally running through what he would say to Foxy before finally just tapping her number and bringing the phone to his ear.

For a brief period of a few seconds, a teeny _-tiny_ part of Mike hoped that she just wouldn't pick up. After around eight or nine rings, though—right when he was starting to believe that she actually WOULDN'T—he heard her voice.

"Hey!"

"Uh, hey Fox—"

"Sorry I'm not currently available to take your call right now, but if wanna leave a message I'll try to get back to ya' as soon as—"

Mike huffed and ended the call right then. _Seriously?_ he thought, glaring down at the phone. Well, there went any of the anxiousness that he previously had. Now he was just irritated. Taking a deep breath, Mike held it there for a moment before gradually releasing it, and the anger, from his system.

"Well...I can't just go there without seeing if she's ready," Mike thought, scratching his chin. He frowned upon feeling the surprisingly smooth skin there, but ignored it as just being a minor inconvenience. "I should probably call her again, just to make su—"

Whether it was by coincidence or if Foxy had some strange power that let her know when she was mentioned, Mike wasn't sure—because at that very moment the phone rang.

The phone nearly slipped out of his hands with how fast he swung it to his ear.

"Er—hello?"

"Um, hi—I mean...hey! H-how are ya'?"

Mike noted how different her voice sounded from its more confident recorded version, but simply stated that 'he was fine.'

"G-good! That's good. Great, actually. So...ahem, are—are ya' guys gonna be getting here sometime soon?"

At this point, Mike had left his room and was halfway up the steps to the living room. "Yeah. Just about to leave, actually. Should be there in about…20-to-25 minutes, I think," he replied, adjusting his collar with his free hand. "Will you be ready by then?"

"I'm um...I'm ready right now, actually," Foxy admitted after a brief pause.

"Oh."

Near the front door, dressed in a similar suit to Mike's, Victor was just getting finished with the tying of his shoes when he saw him approaching. He stood and straightened his tie. "Ah! There you are." Then, he noticed that Mike had a phone to his ear and politely lowered his volume a few notches. "She ready?"

Mike quickly nodded and with an up-and-down motion of his hand, told his father that he'd be out the door in just a moment. "As I was trying to say, sorry for keeping you waiting then. Be there shortly. Will you be waiting inside, or—"

"Yes! I'll be waiting inside. In the lobby," answered Foxy, her still shaking voice somewhat audible over the door closing behind Victor. "Just come to the front when ya' get here, 'kay?"

Mike nodded, then remembered she couldn't _see_ him nodding, and hurriedly said, "Got it. So...see you then?"

"Yep!"

 _ **CLICK**_

Well, _that_ caught him off-guard. Mike blinked. Pulling the phone away from his ear, he looked at the screen—which reactivated almost immediately—and saw that Foxy had just up and ended the call. _Without even saying "goodbye"?_ He pondered with a quirked brow. Then, he simply just shrugged it off and stowed the phone away into a pocket.

If one were to walk straight into the house through the front, immediately to the right of the door they would see a tiny room that acted as a closet to the family and any possible guests. It was in this closet that Mike found his winter coat, hung up right where it had been left nearly a year before, when Spring had arrived and it was no longer necessary. Putting the coat on over the suit, Mike suddenly wished that this was still true. It felt incredibly awkward. Just another thing he would have to endure tonight, though.

Mike pulled the front door open a crack, and even with both the suit and the warmth of a jacket to protect him—that initial blast of bitter, frigid air hitting him made his teeth chatter. He let out a puff of air, made visible by the lowered temperatures, and then the man fully stepped outside.

It was truly the blizzard the news stations had made it out to be. He hurried across the porch and lawn, the thick blanket of snow crunching beneath his leather dress shoes. As soon as Mike made it over to the already running car, he yanked the door open and hurled himself into the passenger seat.

"You good?" asked Victor, fingers tapping patiently on the wheel.

After a brief pause to catch his breath, Mike nodded, throwing the seatbelt over his shoulder and torso. The moment it connected to the receiver and made a soft _**click**_ , he pulled a pair of gloves from his coat pockets and put them on.

"Alrighty then, son. Let's get rolling."

The car made a soft purr as it backed out of the driveway. Victor was extra cautious in checking for any other vehicles coming down the road, as the heavily falling snow made it difficult to see. Once he checked both ways multiple times and saw no cars, nor headlights indicating the presence of said cars on the residential road, he completely backed into the street—paused for a second more—then shifted the gear to _Drive,_ and took his foot off the brakes. With near silence aside from the slushed snow beneath the tires, the car took off down the road.


	12. Dinner Night - Part 2

By the time Mike and his father were five minutes away from the arena, the blizzard had died down somewhat. Unfortunately, though, this didn't really do much to change the temperature. It was just as cold outside, even without the same amount of snow falling. For this reason—Mike had temporarily fallen in love with the car's heating system.

To his left, Victor was currently talking to some colleagues through an earpiece, allowing both hands to remain safely on the wheel. This was official business, which meant the radio was off-limits. So for the moment, Mike's entertainment options were slim. It was because of this that he had taken to simply staring out the passenger-side window.

They were in the urban part of the city now. The buildings that they were passing now hadn't changed much over the 17 years that Mike had a conscious memory of. Sure there were some new businesses here or there, but that was just the natural order of things in a place like this. Some businesses—mostly the big ones like the FBF—prospered, making more than enough money to get by. Smaller businesses that just didn't make enough would be replaced by a different business, and if that business didn't either, it too would be replaced. Survival of the fittest in effect.

All of that was just the interior stuff, though. Not much had been built over the years, and the buildings looked the same from a distance.

Mike shook his head and looked over at his father. Apparently his phone call had ended at some point in the past minute or two, because Victor now sat in complete silence, his earpiece stowed away in some department of the car.

"Hey, uh, Dad?" asked Mike.

"What's up?" Victor replied, giving him a quick glance before returning his eyes to the road.

"Mind if I turn on the radio?"

"Not at all, actually," said Victor. "Go for it."

With the press of a button, the radio's display flashed to life and quiet music started playing through the speakers. The volume was quickly adjusted to be audible, but after a few seconds of listening to this song, Mike decided that it just simply wasn't for him and changed stations. Next came a smooth jazz tune, which was also abruptly changed not even a second later. Then, a metal song came on. Oh...man. That thrashing guitar. That bass...and those _drums._ Those DRUMS.

Mike leaned back in the seat, a pleased smile on his face as he lightly moved his head to the beat. In the driver's seat, Victor looked over at Mike enjoying the music, then looked back at the road ahead of him. ...then looked back at Mike again.

With an amused tone, he asked, "You...like metal music?"

"Yeah."

"Huh. Ya' know...maybe you actually _are_ my son," Victor avowed, smirking.

Both of them broke into laughter at that. Only a few seconds later, though, the FBF Grand Coliseum came into view. Wiping a mirthful tear from his eye, Victor quickly checked to see if there were any cars around and surprisingly found none driving down the road. And the same within the parking lot.

He slowed the car down now. With all the snow on the ground, it was difficult to tell at first where the entranceway was, but Victor eventually found it and turned to start driving toward the arena's front doors.

Mike cleared the moisture from his window with his sleeve and peered through it. Even at this distance he found himself slightly unnerved by the arena's darkened appearance. It was only six o'clock at the moment, so the sun was still up, sure, but the dreary gray clouds in the sky _completely_ blocked it out. None of the lights were turned on inside of the building, and even if they _were_ turned on, Mike wouldn't be able to see a thing through them due to their fogged-up surfaces.

 _The perfect place to be ambushed by some insane fuck,_ thought some dark part of Mike's mind. The memory of the man, and the vivid recollection of cold steel being pressed against the back of his head brought a sick feeling to his stomach.

Mike shook his head, and although the twisted tightness in his gut remained—he tried to focus on the current task. Briefly, he considered calling Foxy to make sure she knew they were here now. After a moment of thought, he decided against it and opened the car door. He let a foot drop to the snow covered pavement, then quickly pulled it back in and shut the door.

"Dad?"

Fingers tapping a rhythm on the wheel, Victor looked over from the driver side. "Mhmm?" he hummed, bobbing his head to the still playing metal song.

"Mind if I...you know—lead the introductions with Foxy? She's a bit... _unused_ to being around people."

Victor raised a brow, but slowly shook his head. "I understand completely."

"Great, great..."

Raw, freezing air hit Mike like a sledge hammer. He closed the car door behind him, and with slow, stomping steps he began trudging through the foot-high snow toward the front door. Seven steps later Mike suddenly wished he had a hat along with the gloves and coat. His ears had become red, bitten by the coldness. _Almost...there…_ , thought Mike, only a few feet away from the door now. Even at this close of a proximity, he still couldn't see a thing through the fogged up glass. So if Foxy was up against the glass, looking at him through it...he wouldn't be able to tell.

Suddenly one of the doors opened a tiny bit, only to be stopped by the snow. It was pushed against the packed snow for a while longer to no avail, then it closed. A second passed, and then the door was pushed out again. It went a little farther this time, but the snow still stopped it.

Mike stood there, blinking in confusion before he finally realized what was happening. Not caring that his suit pants had gotten wet, he kneeled and quickly began shoveling away some of the snow. About half-way through, he felt his fingers starting to get wet through the thin gloves, but he continued regardless. Once a decent enough portion of it was gone and the door wasn't blocked, Mike shakily pushed himself to his feet.

Foxy finally managed to push through the door, and with a small nod from Mike, they both sprinted back to the still-running car. The vixen threw herself into the backseat and slammed the car door behind her, and Mike returned to the passenger's seat. Shivering, Mike managed with some effort to pull the gloves off his hands. They were useless now, so he crumpled and tossed them to floor. He was still catching his breath when he looked over his shoulder at Foxy.

"You...y-you okay?" he asked, a slight look of concern on his face.

And Mike thought _he_ had been shivering. Curled into a ball of sorts, Foxy sat on the seat directly behind the driver, her arms and legs forcefully held to her chest. She had on a pair of pants (that were now soaked from the knees down), and to protect her from the weather, Foxy wore a coat. It was a real dingy looking thing, too; thin, a visible stain on the left side, a couple tears on the right, and a bunch of threads missing throughout. Overall the thing looked like it hadn't been replaced in over...thirty years. Fifty, even.

"Foxy."

She looked up this time.

"Are you okay?" Mike repeated.

Foxy nodded, her teeth chattering as she said, "Y-y-yeah, I-I'm f-f-fine. Just...s-so fucking _COLD_..."

"Good thing the car's heated," Victor chimed in, turning the car to leave the arena's parking lot.

Again, Foxy nodded, her gaze moving to look at Victor. She opened her maw to speak, but whatever it was faltered and faded away, and she simply just turned her attention to look out the window. The arena—her home—was getting further and further away from her with every passing moment. No longer could the animatronic hide away from society in her place of security. This realization alone renewed Foxy's shivering with fervor, a storm of nervous anxiety raging throughout her system. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale...exhale. Foxy told herself to just keep taking deep breaths, her arms' grip around her legs tightening. Suddenly, she heard Mike clear his throat.

"So, Foxy," he began. "This...is my dad."

Peeking out from above her knees, Foxy blinked.

"Victor Schmidt," said the man in front of her. Albeit more cheerful, his voice definitely sounded similar to Mike's. "It's a pleasure to meet ya', Miss Foxy. I would shake your hand right now, but, well—I'm driving."

For a second there, Foxy thought he was about to mention her hook, but he ended up completely proving her wrong. Out of anticipation, a glare had even begun to form on her face. It quickly faded, though only to be replaced by pure confusion. _It's...a pleasure to meet me?_ Foxy pondered this over and over in her head until she realized she hadn't actually _replied_ yet. She coughed, and after some hesitation—she forced herself to speak.

"I-it's nice to meet ya' too, M-mister Schmidt."

Her voice shook (whether from the nervousness or the cold wasn't distinguishable), and it was a little _louder_ than it needed to be. But it was something, at least _._ Plus, the aforementioned heating system of the car was finally starting to have an effect on her, too. Though she still didn't uncurl from that balled position of hers. Part of the vixen still felt unsure about this whole deal, and, well...years of the same habit were difficult to even crack; let alone BREAK.

That was all that was said for a while. Victor had gone back to focusing on the road ahead, and Mike appeared to be distracted by something outside the window. As Foxy sat silent in the back, it slowly dawned on her that there was a song playing from somewhere in the car. Her canine ears quickly detected the source of the music, and found that it was coming from some device in the front of the vehicle. This music was...strange. She had heard music before in her life, whether from television or from it playing in the arena, and despite hearing many varied types of music—this was something completely new to her.

"What is this...music...?" asked Foxy, her voice so soft it was just barely hearable over the bizarre song.

Seemingly surprised that she had spoke, Mike jolted his head away from the glass and stared at her. "What?"

"The music. ...what is it?"

"Oh, this? It's uh—a genre called 'metal'," explained Mike. "This song in particular is called..." —he checked the radio's display— " _The Unforgiven,_ apparently."

"One of Metallica's very best," Victor interjected.

One of Foxy's ears twitched a bit, and she tilted her head. "...who's Metallica?"

"Don't even get my dad started—"

"You don't know who _Metallica_ is?" questioned Victor, his tone heavily implying that he was shocked. He then went on to explain a bunch about the band; how and when they started, their early work, what he thought were their best songs, etc. Throughout the whole discussion, Foxy couldn't help but feel intrigued by this new information. It was all new to her, but she could tell from Victor's voice that he was passionate about it.

Finally, once he came to a conclusion in his talking about what appeared to be his favorite band—Mike let out a chuckle, and shook his head. "Told you not to get him started," he said, adjusting the volume of the radio a bit. "Anyway...do you... _like,_ this music?"

Foxy sat there, quietly listening to it playing in the background before looking at the back of Mike's head to answer. "Hell, it ain't bad," she eventually decided.

'Well, that's good."

Confused, Foxy asked, "...why?"

"Because I don't think he would've changed it anyway," Mike replied, amusement breaking through the stone that was his face.

"Actually, I would have."

"Psh." Snorting, Mike rolled his eyes and said, "Let me guess...to Iron Maiden."

"Cor—rect!"

* * *

Several minutes later the Schmidts' car pulled into their driveway, and came to a silent stop. While the two men in the front of the car simply opened their doors and stepped out, Foxy found herself glued to the seat. She stared out the window in awe. Despite having seen a couple houses within the movies she had actually been able to _watch_ in the arena, Foxy had...never actually seen any houses in person. And while she didn't have much of a frame of reference for it; she thought the family's house looked _amazing_. Many could argue that the FBF Grand Coliseum looked fantastic itself—and while they were most definitely right themselves—the animatronic had really just grown used to it all. That feeling of amazement was simply lost on her now.

"Damn..." whispered Foxy, her jaw hanging open.

Suddenly, she heard a knock on the car door to her immediate left. Foxy turned, startled slightly, only to see Mike standing there in the cold with a confused expression. He tilted his head, and motioned with a hand for her to leave the vehicle. With a nod, Foxy pulled the handle and tried to push the door open...only to find it wouldn't budge. Even after another try, the result remained the same.

Not sure what else to do at this point, Foxy pondered for a moment before she turned in her curled seating position to have her feet against the door. She brought them back toward her in preparation. Before she could kick out with them, though, the door opened wide away from her.

Foxy cringed upon the cold air coming in contact with her, hissing in discomfort.

"S-sorry. Child lock's on that d-door," stated Mike through chattering teeth. He held a hand out to her. "Let's h-hurry up and get inside where it's warm."

Without even a moment of hesitation, Foxy accepted the held out hand and got out of the vehicle.

Sneakers were actually more of a burden when there was nearly a foot of snow on the ground. As such, Foxy and Mike ran as fast as they possibly could around the car and toward the front door. They narrowly avoided all ice on the pavement, but once they were past all the heavy snow and were a mere few feet away from the front door; away from sanctuary—Foxy slipped.

Mike still held her hand in his, and upon feeling the sudden and jerking shift in weight from Foxy, he lunged a hand toward the doorknob. Suddenly, keeping his footing was a lot more difficult. He turned to Foxy and reached to grab her with his other hand.

Thanks to a rapid flipping of her weight on each foot, a hand around her waist, and her hand somehow _still_ held firmly in Mike's, Foxy just barely managed to keep herself from falling flat on her ass. Finally getting back to a good stance, she took deep, heaving breaths.

"The f-fuck...?" she whispered, glaring down at the ground beneath her.

"I-ice," Mike replied, also catching his own breath. He cracked his neck, and said, "It's...slippery."

Shivering, Foxy irritatedly grumbled. "Well l-let's just get the _fuck_ inside, th-then _."_

Mike nodded, then realized where his hands were still resting. On Foxy. The flushing of his face was almost impossible to see due to it already being reddened by the cold. He helped Foxy to a stand and took his hands off her. Turning away from her to open the front door, Mike cleared his throat.

Kimberly Schmidt was already sitting on the couch by Victor when they got inside. She noticed them standing by the doorway and quickly got to her feet. "Ah! It's nice to finally have our guest here," she announced. Walking over to Foxy, she held out her left hand.

Foxy took the hand expecting a handshake, but found herself being pulled into a loose hug. She was surprised—shocked, even—and was about to pull herself away from the hug. The warmth the embrace provided her was more than welcome, though. So even though it was more than a bit awkward for her, she accepted it until the woman quickly pulled away.

Her voice now shaking from just nervousness rather than the cold, Foxy said, "Thank ya', m-miss...?"

"Kimberly Schmidt," finished the woman. She smiled, then added, "Though you can just call me Kim."

Foxy nodded, then suddenly heard her name called from behind. There was a doorway leading into a small room, where she found Mike already removing his winter coat in the corner. Not looking in her direction, he motioned toward a hook right next to him.

"You can hang your coat right here."

She walked over next to him and began unbuttoning her jacket. While Foxy was doing this, Mike glanced over and noticed that this coat of hers was actually _missing a few buttons,_ too. He gulped, and shook his head quietly to himself. _Jeez._ Once he had all the buttons undone on his winter jacket, he unzipped and removed the article of clothing in one motion, then hung it up on the rack. He stepped back to the doorway, and waited there until Foxy eventually walked over to leave the closet. It was at that moment that he decided to look at what she was wearing.

Like always, she was wearing those plain white and blue tennis shoes. The fact that she had worn those even when they would be going through snow made him think that they were actually the _only_ pair of shoes she owned. She wore a pair of jeans, somewhat suited to her athletic build, with a small hole in the back for her tail to go through. And on her torso she had on a gray turtleneck. It was a little...loose on her, but for the most part she didn't look bad. You know—for a mechanical vixen.

Foxy managed to hang her coat next to Mike's—albeit a little awkwardly—then turned, and noticed him staring at her. Putting a hand to her hip, she audibly cleared her throat.

Blinking, Mike stood there for a second trying to figure out _why_ Foxy looked so irritated. When it finally hit him that what he had just been doing could be seen as creepy, he awkwardly smiled. "Um...heh, sorry."

Foxy quirked a brow.

Quickly trying to think of something to change the subject, Mike asked, "So, Foxy...you ever have, uh...chicken?"

"Nope."

"Hm. I guess you're in for a treat, then," Mike told her, turning right to walk toward the dining room.


	13. Dinner Night - Part 3

On one side of the table, the parents sat next to each other, with Victor on the left and Kimberly to his right. The "kids" sat across from them: Mike opposite of their mother, and Anne next to him. Seating arrangements at the table had been the same for years, for the most part. A tradition of sorts. Unaware of this _tradition_ , Foxy just found the empty spot nearest to Mike and awkwardly took a seat. She cast a quick glance over at Mike which, once it was actually noticed by him, he returned with a reassuring nod. Foxy smiled, then turned her attention to Mrs. Schmidt, who had begun talking.

"Well!" exclaimed Kimberly, loudly clapping her hands together. "Now that we're _all_ finally here and seated, it's time we actually introduce everybody in the family to our guest."

"But she's already met all—well— _almost_ all of us, mom," Mike interjected.

Her voice now back to normal, Anne spoke up. "But she hasn't met me, yet!"

"Right—"

"See? Even if Foxy's met some of us already, we might as well just get _all_ of it done at once," explained Kim.

Both Mike and Foxy wanted to explain that it wasn't necessary for them to do that, but the look on his mother's face silenced any protests Mike had. And Foxy, well...she was having difficulty just getting words out in general at the moment. So, neither of them spoke a peep as Kimberly continued.

"Starting with me and rotating clockwise around the table, every one of us will introduce ourselves. 'Kay...? Okay.

"As you already know, Foxy, my name is Kimberly Schmidt. Like I said earlier, you can just call me Kim," she stated with a toothy smile.

Next came Victor. Instead of introducing himself immediately, the man stood and made his way across the wooden floor over to Foxy. He offered his left hand, which was stared at by the vulpine animatronic for a couple seconds before she came to her senses and realized what the gesture implied. Foxy quickly shook the hand, mentally scolding herself for letting nervousness get the best of her. _Come_ on _, girl—get it together!_

"I've made a point to try and shake the hand of every person I meet," stated Victor. "And seeing as I wasn't able to get one from you when we first met, I might as well now."

Foxy nodded, and gave a quiet 'thanks' in return. Then, like a roaring maglev train smashing into her at 400 mph, she was hit with a sudden realization about Victor's appearance. _Holy shit! Mike and him look so...so similar,_ thought Foxy. The younger man's face had more of a serious expression to it than his father's did, but aside from that (and some obvious signs of age on Victor's face), it was pretty close. _I...guess that should be expected, considering he IS his dad and all that, but fuck..._

As Victor spun around to go return to his seat, the little girl to Mike's right began excitedly bouncing in her seat. "Ooh! Ooh!" Anne chanted. She flipped a lock of strawberry blond hair away from her eyes, then grinned over at Foxy.

"'Kay, so...hiiiii!" she exclaimed in a singsong voice. "Nice to meet you, Ms. Fox! I'm Anne: Michael's little sister."

Unable to control the flushing of the fur around her cheeks, Foxy awkwardly smiled back at the girl and waved. "I-it's nice to meet you, too, A-Anne."

The already wide smile on the twelve year old's face widened even more at that, to the extent of revealing some of the pearly whites behind her lips. She turned to look up at her brother, eager to see what he had to say. After a moment, Foxy looked over at him too.

Having sat silent during the other introductions, Mike rolled his eyes and grunted. He felt all eyes in the room on him and distracted himself momentarily by straightening his tie, then glanced back at Foxy. Once again, the young man found himself impressed by how she looked in that outfit. Not in the best condition—sure. But he couldn't deny that she looked okay in it.

Mike shook his head clear of those thoughts.

"Mike Schmidt," he stated blandly. A corner of his lips turned upward slightly, and he continued by saying, "I believe we've met?"

Despite the anxiety still wrecking her system, Foxy let out a snort at that. "You could say that."

"Right." He laughed, then looked to his mom. "There. Introductions are done now. Can we eat?"

"Of course! Feel free to dig in, everybody."

Mike picked up his silverware. "Glad to…" he mumbled to himself, then used the fork in his hand to stab into a large piece of baked chicken. He set the perfectly seasoned portion of meat onto the dish in front of him, dropped the fork, then began scooping up some steamed broccoli. After the veggies, he helped himself to some mashed potatoes. As the rest of the family also got themselves some food, Mike took his fork and knife in hand, and right when he was just about to dig into his own dinner…

...he noticed that Foxy's plate was still void of any substance.

The vulpine simply stared at the food items in their various pots and containers, then down at her hand and hook. She sighed. Suddenly, the muffled sound of silverware impacting a tablecloth caught her attention to her right. Cocking her head toward the source of the sound, she saw Mike looking back at her with a subtly confused look to his face.

He motioned toward the food with a nod. "Are you gonna grab some food?" he asked. His voice was quiet, as to not draw too much attention to their conversation.

"Well...yeah—" she answered, a little too loudly at first. She laughed nervously with a look around the table, then continued in a whisper. "I just...just...w-well…."

Mike blinked—Foxy's voice broke off into some inaudible mumbling, and she looked back down at her hand and hook. Following the animatronic's gaze, Mike noted the lack of an actual right hand, where its place on her wrist had been taken by that curved, titanium appendage. For a second or two longer he just blankly looked at it. Then—he was hit with a realization. Said realization almost made Mike slap himself in the face with how dumb he felt for not coming to it sooner.

Clearing his throat, he whispered to Foxy again. "You know, I can help you...get...your food."

Foxy's brow furrowed at this; those bold, golden eyes of her narrowing just ever-so-slightly.

"—i-if you _need_ me to, I mean," Mike quickly added.

She looked away from him. Clenching the furred fist in her lap, Foxy closed her eyes to avoid having to look at him, and—if one were to really _listen_ past all the chewing and various other conversations going on around the table—they'd hear the distinct sound of canine teeth grinding. The animatronic took in a deep, shaking breath. Then, she nodded.

Slightly unnerved by Foxy's reaction, Mike gulped. _G-got it,_ he thought, reluctantly reaching for her plate. His fingers eventually came to grip the red, ceramic of the dish. Seeing as Foxy didn't suddenly pounce him at that moment, and she wasn't making any movements that he determined could possibly lead to such action, Mike ultimately decided that it was safe to continue, and took the plate completely in his hands.

As Mike went through the repeated process of filling a plate with food, Foxy watched from over in her seat. _He shouldn't have to waste his time_ _with something as small as...as grabbing food for me,_ she thought. Her frown deepened. _I shouldn't_ need _his assistance._ Eyes trailing from looking at Mike down to looking at the hook resting on her thighs, Foxy wished for the billionth time that it was a normal _hand_ she found there. Slender, russet-fur covered fingers attached to a callused palm—not that goddamned _hook._

Foxy was abruptly pulled from those self-hating thoughts when Mike set the now full plate in front of her with a soft _clink_. "Here."

She nodded, then looked down at the food. As an animatronic, it wasn't really _necessary_ for her to eat all that often (she had heard a rumor that the old models weren't even _equipped with tastebuds_ ). But Foxy _was_ capable of tasting food, AND if she had to be honest with herself—the meal currently sitting in front of her looked mouth-wateringly delicious.

"Psssst!"

Kimberly Schmidt—Mike's mother, she knew—was leaning toward her, a hand cupping the side of her mouth to prevent her voice from reaching others at the table. Foxy raised her brows in response, curious to hear what the woman wanted her attention for.

"Not to be _bossy_ or anything, but..." Kim whispered, then pointed with a fork. "...I would definitely recommend you try the _baked chicken_ first…. It's the best."

Foxy glanced down at the aforementioned chicken, then back up at the woman.

"Just saying!" Kimberly gave her a small, genuine smile, then returned to her own meal.

After that, Foxy considered Kim's suggestion for but a moment before shrugging and took her fork in hand. She stabbed the meat with its metal prongs, then...ended up picking the whole damn thing up. The vixen looked at it suspended in one piece on the fork, then at her hook...then back to the chicken again. Another conundrum.

Brows furrowed, she quickly came up with a solution, and exchanged the fork currently held in her hand for a knife. Said solution being that: if Foxy couldn't hold the chicken down with her fork _and_ cut it with the knife, then she would just have to substitute the fork with her hook.

 _I won't need your help with_ this _,_ she stubbornly thought to herself. A slight cringe came over her face as she stabbed with her hook, but the look quickly dissipated as she went to work cutting the chicken into many smaller chunks. It took a second for Foxy to get used to using a knife like that. And while the pieces weren't exactly _evenly-sized,_ her little solution ended up getting the job done.

Satisfied with her work, Foxy set the knife back down onto the tablecloth and smiled at the result. _I...I guess the ol' thing comes in handy every so often._ She picked the previously discarded fork back up. She rolled the utensil in hand a few times experimentally, then hesitantly moved it to hover over the pile of diced, baked chicken. Gulping, Foxy jabbed into a particularly delicious looking piece and—after scanning said piece over a second—brought it to her mouth.

Slowly, _slooowly,_ Foxy opened her maw. She threw caution to the wind, then set the seasoned piece of chicken in it. The moment the food came in contact with her tongue, her eyes—almost literally—lit up. It was like somebody had cut up a piece of heaven itself, seasoned it with a perfect blend of spices, and baked it in the oven at 400 degrees fahrenheit for around 40 minutes. Never in her long life had Foxy ever had anything _this_ fantastic. She chewed slowly, savoring the tangy, yet smooth flavor of the food. After the first bite was done and swallowed, Foxy picked up another piece. Then another.

Any semblance of the cold, harsh anxiety the vixen had been dealing with throughout the initial visit was temporarily forgotten about as she ate.

* * *

Dinner passed uneventfully. The Schmidts ate, occasionally talking to one another in between bites, while Foxy sat eating her own dinner in peace. For Foxy, it had been a weird experience to have sat that close to humans going about their usual routine. But for once...she didn't really feel like a complete outsider. Instead of ignoring, or even being outright _hostile_ toward her like the animatronic had been expecting before she came, the family had surprisingly been kind to her thus far.

Along with them all introducing themselves in their own ways (she still smirked when she thought back to Mike's so-called 'introduction'), Foxy had actually been included in conversation once during dinner. It had been when Kimberly asked her if the food was good—which was answered by a resounding " _YES"_ from the vixen.

Nearly an hour later, the parents were going about their various cleaning routines in the kitchen and dining room, and Anne was upstairs in her room. That left Foxy sitting in the living room with her apprentice and friend, Mike.

Essentially the _main hub_ of the Schmidt household, the living room connected to most other parts of the building. Aside from a few half-walls that blocked off part of it, it was entirely possible for one to look into the kitchen, and with the dining room there weren't even any walls to speak of. Before the dining room there was a hall to the right that, with a closed door on each parallel wall, lead to two small rooms. And right smack-dab in the center of the kitchen, dining, and living rooms were two carpeted staircases—one leading up and turning into an upstairs area, and the other going down into a basement.

But back to the living room. Although Foxy had seen it when she first walked into the house, due to her nervousness; she had not actually taken the time to observe the living space in detail.

With its warm, cherry red walls and dark wooden floor, the living space gave off a certain 'welcoming' atmosphere. The large television against its outside wall served as a center of attention in the room, as across from it sat a three-cushion couch (where Mike and Foxy currently sat in the room), and the two chairs sitting to the left of the couch were positioned to be perpendicular to it.

With only the two of them in the room, it felt relatively empty. Foxy could still hear the clattering of dishes being washed in the kitchen to the right, so she knew what Mike's parents were doing. _But…._ She turned on the couch, looking behind her and over to the stairs.

"What's your sister doin' up there, Mike?"

Blinking, Mike glanced over at her. "Hm?"

"Your sister. Where is she?" Foxy asked. "I'm surprised she isn't out here talking to us."

Mike looked confused for a brief second longer, then, he quietly laughed and shook his head. "Oh, her? Probably just up in her room, texting her friends like she always does after dinner."

"Oh...okay."

Then, as if a string attached to the corners of his lips was suddenly _yanked_ downward, Mike's already-small smile disappeared completely. He got Foxy's attention by clearing his throat, then stared down at his hands on his lap. "Speaking of dinner, Foxy, I've...I've been meaning to ask something."

Startled by his sudden change in tone, Foxy returned to a normal seated position and looked at him, asking "W-what's up?"

"Dinner. How was it? ...what did you think?"

"Honestly…" Foxy trailed off, her eyes slowly moving to the currently powered-off television.

Mike swallowed, his hands beginning to wring in anticipation of her answer. He was worried she might've been put-off with how strange his mother had been acting during and especially _before_ dinner. Even though he knew his mother was a die-hard fan of Foxy; when she had just outright HUGGED Foxy upon meeting her, well… let's just that say that if he had been drinking something at that very moment—it would've ended up all over his mother's nice red dress. Thankfully, he had had a means of escape by quietly ducking away into the coat-closet.

"Honestly…" repeated Foxy, pulling Mike from his thoughts again. "I...I actually had a pretty damn good time, Mike. The food was great—fuckin' AMAZING compared to the shit I had to eat in the arena."

His voice slightly shaking, Mike chuckled. "I'm not surprised by the food part. Popcorn and hotdogs _do_ get kind of old," he admitted.

"And—and your family, well…" —Foxy pulled her legs and feet up on to the couch, resuming a similar 'balled' position to the one she had held in the car— "...your family was actually really... _really...nice_ to me," she said, her voice suddenly hushing to almost a whisper. Unconsciously, Foxy looked down at her hook, turning it over and over as her voice shakily trailed off.

"Foxy, I...I _did_ tell you everything would be alright, you know," Mike reminded her. Mike felt he should've smiled, but couldn't really bring himself to do so. "Of course they would be nice to you."

Foxy snorted, rolling her eyes. "Yeah, yeah—ya' told me so, slugger. I know. But..." A shuddering breath leaving her maw, Foxy shut her eyes. "It's just that, I've…I've been so _alone_ for so _long_. For YEARS! Shut away from anybody else.

"Ever since that one match—that one goddamned _fuckin'_ match…. Now, I not only have to deal with the fact that I'm unnatural damned _robot_. I—I also have to deal with only havin' _one of my hands._ And instead of my right hand here, it's this...this stupid fuckin' thing."

Grinding her teeth in a suddenly building rage, Foxy brought the hook up in front of her eyes. She glared at the thing in hatred—a kind of seething, red hot hatred that seemed so...out of character for the vixen.

Having been silent throughout her speech, Mike still found no words he could say to console the ranting vulpine. He had only known Foxy for just a little more than a week at this point, but even then, it just didn't feel _right_ to let her hate herself like this.

 _She's my friend,_ Mike told himself. He cursed himself for not doing anything sooner, and shook his head. _I'm really not good at sentimental, but I've...I've got to do_ something. _She helped_ me _when_ I _needed it._ _I at least owe this much to her._

 _The chances of this going terribly wrong are staggering,_ the pessimistic (and maybe realistic) part of Mike reminded him.

 _...then again, I've had worse odds before._

Steeling himself for what he was about to do, Mike took a few steadying breaths. _Here goes nothing…_ he thought. He moved a hand from its resting place on the couch, and slowly began raising it up toward Foxy. Closer and closer. As far as he could tell; judging from her unmoving stance and the unwavering glare she held at her hook, Foxy hadn't noticed what he was doing.

Inch by creeping inch, Mike's hand got closer to her. She still hadn't noticed.

Merely an inch away from the gray fabric of her turtleneck, Mike paused his hand's approach, waiting a moment to regather his nerves. Then, he let his palm softly come down onto her shoulder. Startled by the sudden physical contact, Foxy looked at him. Almost immediately, the intensity of the animatronic's glare nearly made him double-back and give up. But her gaze softened. Her brow unfurrowed, and the hatred and anger and pent-up frustration that had been building in those yellow eyes of hers gradually disappeared—

—only to replaced by a deep sadness.

Gulping, Mike forced himself to proceed. "Foxy, trust me...believe me when I say that you don't _have_ to be alone anymore. I—I understand loneliness, somewhat. Not to the same degree as you, for sure, but...I get the jist of it."

Foxy didn't speak, her gaze unwavering as she looked at him.

"And while it might've bothered me slightly at first—I...I don't really mind that you're an animatronic. You're not some 'freak with a hook', Foxy," Mike said, lightly squeezing her shoulder.

"You're my friend." Mike let out a strange, sad laugh at that. "God, it feels so—so _weird_ to be saying that about somebody after so long, but...yes. You're a good friend. And like you had my back when I almost gave up on challenging the Freddy Circuit, when you offered to take me and train me…. Just know, Foxy, that I now have your back, too."

When he had first stopped talking, the aforementioned vixen just sat silently looking at him for a while. Eventually, though, Foxy turned her face away from him. After a few seconds, Mike heard a quiet _sniff_ from her. Then another. _Is...is she crying?_

Suddenly, in a red blur of motion and with a creak from the couch, Foxy threw her arms around Mike's torso, and pulled him into a tight hug. That certainly caught the man off guard. It felt really...foreign, to him, to be hugging somebody after many years of having "punching other people" as a career. And with how they were seated side-by-side on that couch, it was a little awkward to be trying to face somebody else while still _technically_ facing forward (plus, Mike had actually been _knocked back_ by Foxy's initial lunge toward him).

But, with the current circumstances in mind, Mike was able to temporarily forgive all of that. It was awkward for him for sure, but he brought an arm around her back to stiffly pat it as Foxy's grip on him tightened further.

"Th-there, there, Foxy," Mike shakily whispered, his cheeks pinkened by the close proximity.

Her muzzle buried deeply into his neck and shoulder, Foxy's soft sobs were muffled. Even then, though...Mike still could clearly hear them. He hated the sound of it. Clenching his jaw and swallowing, he pulled Foxy a little closer to him and continued to pat her back through the turtleneck.


	14. A Return to Form

Letting out a yawn, Mike rolled his shoulders as he looked out the car window. It'd still be an hour before the sun was _fully_ up in the morning sky. Regardless, the very edges of its light were just beginning to peek over the buildings on the horizon as Mike neared the FBF Grand Coliseum.

He shifted his foot over to the brake and lightly padded it, slowing the vehicle down to a near stop before it got to the turn. As Mike got closer and closer to the turn, he slowly realized that at the car's current pace, he would unfortunately overshoot it by at least a yard. He slammed his foot down. The car slid a bit more before eventually coming to a complete stop. _Damn ice_ , Mike thought with an irritated grumble. Impatiently tapping his fingers on the steering wheel, the man looked with tired eyes to see if any cars were leaving the arena's parking lot.

None. Of course not.

 _Shouldn't have even bothered,_ thought Mike as he turned and drove down the dimly-lit road. _...at least they got some poor schmuck to plow the snow last night._ That last thought did little to cheer Mike up as he quickly found a parking spot near the entrance and pulled the car to a stop.

The car lurched as it was turned off. He threw off his seatbelt and grunted. Briefly, he considered taking the keys with him—then decided that no sane person would want to steal the piece of shit bucket of bolts that was his personal car. While his family had more than enough money to get Mike a high-end vehicle, his parents had decided that a good way to make him learn the "value of money" was for him to have to buy one himself.

...with his own money.

...that money being the $200 or so he had actually managed to make by boxing before challenging the Freddy Circuit.

While Mike appreciated the sentiment—and understood _why_ his parents did it—there were just some _dreadful_ days when it pissed him off anyway. One of those days being this very cold, and icy Tuesday. Plus, even though he had been holding this same 10-to-6 sleep schedule for a week and a half now, he was still tired.

In spite of all these issues, though, Mike couldn't stop the small, groggy smile that graced his face when he looked toward the arena's front entrance. _Work._ Sure, the looming arena still uneased him a bit. But nothing made him happier than being able to finally train again. That, and he'd get to see Foxy again.

Mike was just opening the car door when memories of the night before finally hit him, and he paused. "What the hell... _was_ that last night...?" he mumbled, absentmindedly closing the door.

He yawned again, then shook his head to try and clear the tiredness from his system. _I really wasn't expecting her to get so...teary-eyed last night._ Mike frowned, scratching his chin. After a few more seconds of silently sitting there in the driver's seat, Mike released a sigh and let his head recline back onto the seat cushion. "Guess I can't really _blame_ her, though. If she's really been alone ever since that...that one match…." As Mike came to a realization, his head shot off the cushion so abruptly it let out a squeak.

He still wasn't sure which "match" the vixen was talking about.

All he knew about it is that it was when Foxy had lost her hand all those years ago. And by extension; when she had lost her career. It was against one of those original three—he was sure of it. Though the question was...which one of them? And an even better question was—how did she lose her hand, anyway?

"Foxy probably wouldn't like me asking..." noted Mike, reaching with a hand to open the car door again. He quickly grabbed his sports bag, then stepped out into the chilly winter air, slamming the door shut behind him with enough force to shake the whole vehicle. "...guess I'll just have to wait and see if she'll ever bring it up herself."

Since he was wearing his winter coat again, it took a little more effort than usual for Mike to get the bag over his shoulder, but eventually he managed it. Starting out at a walking pace, it was a few seconds before the cold finally started to wake Mike up. His pace picked up as he did.

Along with Mike's breathing, his footsteps were the only sound in the vicinity, echoing off the tall, steel walls of the rapidly approaching arena. Through the fogged-up glass of both the windows and doors, he could already tell that the lights in the lobby were turned on. Meaning that there had been activity there recently. For only a second, Mike found himself minusculy worried about that fact—then he realized it was probably just Foxy walking around in there, and shook his head clear of those thoughts.

The air within the lobby was warm— _much_ more comfortable than it was outdoors. In response to the stark change in temperature, Mike unzipped the coat he had worn over his t-shirt, and hung it on the coatrack still sitting to the left of the door. Right as was readjusting the bag over his shoulders, he heard a voice from behind him.

"Mike."

He recognized that voice. It wasn't Foxy.

Turning around, Mike found himself looking at Toy Chica as she ran down the left hallway. She stopped only a few feet away from him, an unreadable expression on her face.

"Y-you're...here."

Crossing his arms, Mike nodded and plainly stated, "Yes."

She swallowed, but was otherwise silent. Her gaze alternated looking him in the eyes, with looking at something else on his face. _It's the scrape she's looking at,_ Mike realized after a second of confusion.

"Listen," he began, subconsciously rubbing the nearly forgotten wound. "There aren't any hard feelings about this little thing, you know. It was an accident."

"It's not...it's not that, Mike. I've just never, well...h-had to talk to somebody after I've gone against them. Let alone _twice_ ," she replied, her southern drawl as clear as ever.

Mike frowned. "I find that difficult to believe."

"I ain't lyin'."

"..."

"Anyway, so um...what brings ya' here?"

"As usual—training," answered Mike, already tired enough of the conversation to try to simply walk past Toy Chica.

She intercepted him, taking a hurried step in front of him to halt any continued progress. "Still?!" Toy Chica exclaimed, bewildered by the man's decision. Her beak opened and closed a few times as she tried to think of what to say. "You're _still_ gonna try and fight on? Why?"

"I already _told_ you _why_ ," said Mike. Anger was already showing through the young man's voice, something which surprised even himself.

"And I told ya' why would ya' _shouldn't,_ Mike!" Toy Chica shot back.

Reeling in his irritation to the best of his ability, Mike huffed. "I know. Mr. Fazbear?"

"YES—!"

"But he's just some old man!" interjected Mike, throwing his hands up. "Why would I ever need to be worried about him? _He's_ the one who called me in the first place!"

"I-it wasn't him—!"

"Would you kindly STOP fuckin' lying to him, please?"

Shocked, both Mike and Toy Chica turned toward the new, third voice in the lobby. Leaning against the corner of the lobby and right hallway's walls, it was the russet animatronic herself: Foxy. She pushed off of the wall with an irritated grunt and stomped across the green carpet toward Toy Chica.

"I'll be takin' him now," said Foxy, glaring holes into the chicken.

"Foxy, _please_ listen—!"

" _ENOUGH,"_ Foxy snarled, her growl making the yellow feathered animatronic step timidly back against the wall. "These intimidation tactics of yours _aren't_ working."

Part of Foxy wanted to take _another_ step toward Toy Chica, to prove her point...and make herself feel better. But she decided that the chicken was already scared enough as it was and managed to stop herself. Turning, she reached out and took Mike's hand in her own. Despite the anger showing through Foxy's voice and body language—her grip on his hand was surprisingly gentle.

"Ya' ready?" Foxy asked him, her voice a lot softer now that she was apparently now completely ignoring Toy Chica's presence right next to them.

Mike nodded.

"Good!" Foxy smirked, and with Mike in tow, she took off in a brisk walk toward the hallway.

Not even a second later, the avian animatronic quietly spoke again. Her voice no longer shook, a harsh absoluteness overtaking the previous panic that had choked it. "Ya' won't beat the other two, Mike. Ya' can't."

"Watch us," replied Foxy confidently. They left the speechless Toy Chica alone in the lobby.

* * *

"So...what was that about?" Mike eventually asked after a few minutes of them walking silently through the corridor. They had originally started out jogging in the opposite direction of the main entrance area, but once that yellow animatronic was out of sight, and they were sure she wasn't just trailing behind them at a safe distance, they settled down into a casually slow walk. Neither of them had spoken a word since the encounter with the chicken—until now, that is.

Foxy merely shrugged in response, her eyes still looking ahead as she said, "Probably just pissed that ya' whipped her tail-feathers on Sunday, to be frank."

Mike couldn't help but smile at not only _what_ she said, but also at how matter-of-factly it had been just thrown out there. "Maybe."

With that said, there was quiet in the hall once again. Mike shook his head, taking his eyes off the animatronic still gripping his hand, and looked ahead at the subtly curved hall. So many doors. At this point in his training, Mike had come down this exact same path countless times, but even then it still baffled him at how _gargantuan_ the FBF actually was _._ Were all of these unmarked rooms even used at any point? Were half, even? There were only _so many_ offices and meeting spaces a building actually needed before it eventually became superfluous.

A squeeze on his hand caught Mike's attention, and he blinked. They had reached the gym. Looking over to Foxy again, Mike found that she was already looking at him. Anxiously, she cleared her throat before speaking.

"Do ya' mind if we...um...if we _talk,_ before training today?"

Memories of the previous day instantly sprung up in his mind. Mike swallowed what felt like a rusted pinecone full of nails in his throat, but nodded regardless.

Foxy gave him a weak smile, then, as if coming to a sudden realization, yanked her hand away from his. She tried to play it off with a laugh, quickly transitioning the near violent movement into opening the gym door. As soon as it was open even a little, Foxy bolted through the opening and ran toward the storage closet in the back. Mike stared. _What's the issue with_ her _now?_

Doorknob in hand, Mike took one last cautious look down the hall before shutting the door behind him.

By the time he finally walked through the doorway of the closet, Foxy had already taken a seat in her chair. Mike took his time getting to his usual spot. "Is something wrong, Foxy?" he asked, carelessly dropping his sports bag somewhere nearby at his feet.

"Not really, I just want to…"—she snapped her fingers, searching for the correct words—"to apologize for a couple things."

"What? You don't need to apologize for anythi—"

Foxy held up a hand to stop him.

"First off," she began. "I want to apologize for stopping practice so damn early yesterday." Tilting her head back to look up at the blank ceiling, Foxy let out a shaking breath. "Truth be told, I just didn't think I'd be able to refocus on your training after what you asked. ...fuckin' caught me off guard like you would _not believe!_ "

"As long as we get back to work today, it's fine."

Laughing, Foxy glanced back at him with a smirk. "Ya' know...I was hoping you'd say somethin' like that." She snorted, then her gaze returned to the ceiling. "Anyway—I showed ya' my room because...well…"—she shrugged—"I thought it'd be interesting, I guess. ...say, did ya' know you're actually the first one I've let into my room?"

"I...didn't know that," Mike replied after a pause. _Though I had a suspicion._

"Yep! Didn't even let any of the old models in back during the 'golden days'. Not that I even fuckin' liked any of them, anyway. Assholes…. Every. Single. One of them."

Back aching from the uncomfortable folding chair, Mike took a second to pop it, then turned to look back at Foxy. "You told me about them before. ...hm. This might be weird to ask, but—why did you hate Chica so much in particular?"

With a huff, Foxy closed her eyes. "I hated all of 'em, but...her…. They all disliked the fact that I had come up outta pretty much nowhere and beaten 'em. Sure, I mean—it was a major blow to their pride. But Chica always made a point to be a real bitch about it.

"Just beginner's LUCK _,"_ said Foxy, suddenly doing an exaggerated imitation of the chicken's voice. "We're all just goin' EASY on ya', Fox' _._ You only beat us because you're quick, Fox', and you rely on cheap _tricks…."_

Mike rolled his eyes, but still couldn't stop himself from grinning a bit, too. Foxy noticed this and continued the mockery tenfold.

" _Blahblahblah—_ in reality, I'm actually extremely JEALOUS of your skill, Miss Fox'! I'm a dumb featherbrain! I'm just DISAPPOINTED these tacky yellow feathers of mine don't look nearly as stylish _or_ as slick as that red fur of yours, the oh-so-amazing Fox'!"

To the vixen's surprise, the usually stoic Mike Schmidt literally _fell out of his chair_ in hysterical laughter. Back arched, hands clutching madly at his gut, the man's whole form quaked with each high-pitched guffaw.

Foxy's first reaction was to want to ask Mike if was alright. Falling onto your side against a floor made of hard concrete could not have been too pleasant an experience, after all. Yet, Foxy couldn't bring herself to ask him. Infact—she actually found herself... _smiling_ at the sight. Happy. Even with how unusual the whole thing had looked to her.

 _Is this what having a friend is like?_

Still laying on the floor, Mike made no efforts to try and halt or even restrain the laughter, instead just letting the amusement run its course. From full, out of control chortling—his laughing eventually settled.

" _Sniff—HAHAhaha—ha—ha…"_

Mike collapsed on the floor; lying on his back, he let his head gently slump down against the hard surface. Red-faced, he wiped his eyes free of tears, while simultaneously trying to take in deep gulps of air. All the while an exasperated 'ha' occasionally escaped his lips.

"Heh, I...I'm sorry for um, for losing _a hold of myself_ , I guess," said Mike, quietly eyeing Foxy from his position on the floor.

Getting to her feet, Foxy stood and held out a hand to him. "No biggie, slugger."

Both of them returned to their seats.

A sigh left Foxy's muzzle as she was brought back to the previous topic of discussion. "I was the one who got off-topic in the first place, anyway. Gettin' back _on-topic_ , Mike, I also wanted to apologize for—"

This time it was Mike who stopped Foxy's talking. A hand held up, he said, "Look—um, if this is about what happened last night before we took you back, Foxy, let me just stop you right there."

"...why?"

"Because it was completely understandable, Foxy. I knew that was something you weren't used to, and adjusting to it wasn't going to be easy either way."

"I shouldn't have gotten so damn emotional like that though, Mike! Completely ruined the whole thing with my whole 'sobbin'-sally' thing, and now your family probably thinks I'm some vulnerable emotional wreck," lamented Foxy, looking away with a crossing of her arms.

"You didn't ruin anything," stated Mike. "And my family? They actually enjoyed last night. A lot."

Foxy looked back at him. "They...they did?"

Nodding, Mike smiled and said, "Yeah. They're just glad I found somebody to interact with outside of the family. You know...in a way involving at least _slightly_ fewer punches than a boxing match."

"Ha!" Snickering, Foxy once again punched Mike in the shoulder, her fist landing in almost the exact same spot it had the day before.

"Fuck! Stop that!" exclaimed an irritated Mike, rubbing the bruised muscle.

Foxy, still snickering, just shook her head and stood. "Say, speakin' of _boxing matches..._ we should probably get to work actually preparing ya' for your next one now."

"Who is it, anyway?"

Standing by the doorway leading into the heavy illuminated gymnasium, Foxy was a mere silhouette as she turned to face Mike. "Her name's Toy Bonnie. I ain't surprised you're unfamiliar with her, though. Not many have made it far enough to face her."

Mike followed the vixen back into the much larger gym area, and walked aside her as she made her way toward their usual warm-up spot. Said spot was a section of the room where both the floors and certain parts of the wall were covered with blue exercise mats. After the previous week (and part of yesterday) of nearly the same training routine, it had all become near automatic for the two of them.

"Toy Bonnie?" repeated Mike after a moment. "So, I assume she'll fight in a style similar to that Bonnie from your day, right?"

"That's the assumption, though...I'm ain't too sure about this one."

Mike laid face-down on a random part of the mat, with Foxy standing only a couple feet away from him. He looked up at her, a brow raised as he asked, "You're not sure?"

Shrugging, Foxy admitted, "It's been quite a few years since I've seen her box, slugger... Can't remember her style."

"That's...unfortunate."

After they went through a few of their routine stretches without anything said between the pair, Foxy eventually brought her hook to her chin, using the point to softly scratch the underside of her muzzle in thought. "Tell ya' what, Mike. I'll...I'll bug Mr. Fazbear about it sometime today—see if he has any recordings of Toy Bonnie fights, ya' know?"

"Sounds like a plan to me," said Mike, pushing himself to his feet. Automatically moving into the next warm-up, he started slowly rotating his arms in a vertical manner. He was a silent a few seconds before hesitantly asking, "...I'm curious—does he know you're training me?"

Foxy shook her head. "No, but I doubt it'll be a big deal."

"I, uh, sure hope not."

"Trust me, Mike...despite him sharing a last name with that damn bear, Mr. Fazbear is a pretty decent guy most of the time. Shoot, man's the reason I'm still allowed to live here, after all."

"Well, if he's that decent of a man, then it shouldn't be a problem," replied Mike. Then, he clapped his hands together, rubbing them together anxiously. "Anyway, let's move onto weightlifting now. Back to work before we start practicing technique."

"Ya' gonna do better than _yesterday_ , slugger?" Foxy asked with a teasing grin.

"...screw off."


	15. New Information

_Same shit, different day,_ said the voice in Mike's head as the man approached the FBF's doors the following morning.

His car was still the same rusted heap of bolts it had always been. The outdoors was still a frigid hell for those unfortunate enough to have to traverse it. And for some insane reason—Mike's body _still_ hadn't grown used to that damn sleep schedule needed to wake up so early. So he was still tired. Glorious. _Let's hope I don't have to deal with Toy Chica again, at the very least._

As Mike pushed through those glass doors, however, it became very clear to him that something actually _was_ different today. One of the screens hung above the front desk was actually lit up for once in the morning. Broadcasted on said screen was one of the local news stations, talking about weather for the next few weekdays. _Cloudy, snowfall, snowfall, cloudy…._ Mike shook his head. Then, looking down from the unsurprising display, he found another, much _bigger_ difference about the day—one that _actually_ shocked him. That difference being a bald and scrawny old man sitting in a chair behind the lobby's front desk.

"Whuuh? Oh, uhm...why i-if it isn't Mr. Mike Schmidt himself," stammered Mr. Fazbear, spinning around in his chair so abruptly that he nearly fell out of it.

One hand still frozen in place holding his bag's drawstring, Mike blinked. "Er—hello, Mr. Fazbear."

"You can—ya' know—continue taking your, uh, y-your coat off and such."

Hurriedly nodding, Mike threw his bag down onto the carpet, quickly unzipped his winter coat and hung it on the rack still standing above a floor vent, then replaced the sports bag over his shoulder. He turned to look back at the owner with a nervous gulp. "What brings you here so early?" asked Mike.

"Well, I actually came here to talk to—well—your young self," replied Mr. Fazbear. Unlike the chair under him, which remained silent, he made a number of quiet grunts and groans as he got to his feet. He brushed down the front of his finely tailored suit, despite nothing visible having been on it, then pushed through the desk's wooden gate.

A feeling of dread, colder than the snow outside, began building in Mike's chest. He cleared his throat and asked, "T-to talk to me? What about?"

"For starters, Mr. Schmidt…" said the old man as he walked over to him. "I still haven't gotten the chance to—ya' know, t-to actually introduce myself to you, proper." He held out a shaking hand.

"Oh. ...right, yeah." Mike quickly accepted the offered hand, and shook it—perhaps a little too fast.

"Now that the introductions are over and what have you, would ya'...well, _m-mind_ coming with me into my office for somethin'?" asked the old man.

"No," stated Mike with a curt shake of his head. "Lead the way."

The finely dressed man gave him a brief smile, complete with a few missing teeth and all, then spun around and slowly trudged toward the right hallway with Mike in pace behind him. _This'll be fun,_ Mike thought with a grimace. _Having to sit and chat with mister "use me for entertainment and money"._

The two weren't out there in the hall for too long, however, as after only a few seconds of walking, Mr. Fazbear turned to open one of the many unmarked doors.

"Just, um...f-feel free to take a seat—it's the one in front of the desk," Mr. Fazbear offered.

Surprisingly, the old man's office was apparently not kept as tidy as the lobby and hallways of the FBF were. Marred by crumbs and other unidentifiable specks, the green carpet looked as if it hadn't been cleaned in ages. Not only that, but the surface of the desk that Mike sat in front of was completely coated in a thin layer of dust, which also covered the ebony phone set and lamp sitting unused on the desk.

Mr. Fazbear sighed as he slumped down into the cushioned office chair. "S-sorry about the look of this place…" The chair squeaked—a sound akin to a mouse being sat on by a hippo—as he leaned backward into it, lightly tapping the arm rests with his fingers. "I—uh, I don't let the cleaners or staff in here very often."

"I see," Mike observed.

"I'm not in here often myself, actually," continued Mr. Fazbear, his eyes wandering around the room. "Prefer to, well, lead the company from home as often as I can, to be honest. I-I'm sure with ya' being a—a man like yourself—you can relate to not wantin' to sit around in an office all day..." He trailed off with a weak laugh.

To try and at least be friendly, Mike nodded and forced a smile. "Yeah."

"And say, I-I never did congratulate ya' on winning on Sunday, did I?"

"It's fine," assured Mike.

"No, no, no...it's...it's a rare occasion, Mr. Schmidt. Understand, it's not often we see somebody come back after a loss like the one ya' had last week."

Ignoring the brief flare of anger at his loss being mentioned, Mike thought back to what the announcer had said before his last match. "The last time was over twenty years ago, wasn't it?"

"Yessir. And, well, not only that, but you also did the unthinkable and _won_ , too. Though _some_ of that may partly be because of some, uh,"—Mr. Fazbear's gaze suddenly shifted to looking Mike straight in the eye—"some help."

Gulping, Mike froze for a moment. _Uh oh._ With great reluctance, he managed to force himself to nod.

"Foxy the Pirate," mumbled Mr. Fazbear, his eyes once again growing distant. "Sh-she was always my favorite, ya' know…. Back in the old days, before people got to fight in the ring. But, ya' know...it's interestin', actually. My mind might be slipping in some places, Mr. Schmidt; memory included in that. But from what I can recall, she...well…after her career ended, she never helped, or even _approached_ any other boxers. None. Not a _single_ one! Until _you_ came along…" he noted, trailing off at the end. "...I wonder why…."

The frail old man shook his head, suddenly coming back to the present. "Anyway, I...I hope Foxy can put those tapes of Toy Bonnie to good use. Girl rarely gets to fight, but sh-she's tricky, ya' know?"

"I hope she can too," replied Mike, nodding. Then, hesitantly, he asked, "So...you're okay with her helping me?"

With a shrug, Mr. Fazbear weakly smiled and said, "I don't really see a problem with it. I-I mean, it isn't against any rules we have set up, so...um, so ya' should be fine."

Mike grinned. _At least we don't need to worry about_ that _anymore._ "Thank you, sir."

"Don't mention it. Now, let's move onto business then, sh-shall we?" The chair squeaked once again as the old man shifted around on it, a hand reaching into his coat pocket. He pulled out two slips of paper, one a light tan color and the other lavender. "Here ya' go."

Curious, Mike took both slips in hand and quirked a brow. He glanced down at them, then immediately back up at the man across from him. "...checks? What for, sir?"

"Why—they're for your matches, of course!" responded Mr. Fazbear, a look of slight surprise on his aged face.

"The first one, Mr. Mike Schmidt, is from, well, your first match obviously. E-everybody who challenges the Freddy Circuit gets _that_ one, so it's sorta cheap. R-relatively. Though the other one, however...it's been awhile since anybody's gotten one, well, one like _that_."

 _$1000?_ Mike's eyebrows shot up in surprise after reading the first check. _Damn! That's...that's more than THREE TIMES the amount I've earned from all of my previous matches. COMBINED. How's that considered_ low _by anyone…?_ He let out a low whistle of satisfaction, then swapped that check for the lavender one beneath it. The moment he read the amount total, though, both of the checks (along with Mike's jaw) dropped to the floor.

"F-f-f-fifty _grand_?!" he stuttered, his hands still held in front of him holding the phantom checks.

Amused by his reaction, Mr. Fazbear smiled his gap-toothed grin again. "Yessir."

After staying frozen in that pose for a few seconds, Mike recovered, and took several deep, steadying breaths. Carefully, he picked the checks up from the carpet, then quickly stood. "Sir, there's...SURELY, there's been a mistake here. Maybe you added an extra zero on accident. _...something_."

His smile still holding, the old man shook his head. "Heh. Nope. I-I actually signed that one myself, ya' know. It's absolutely right."

The checks were looked at once more by Mike before he glanced back up at Mr. Fazbear. "Well, um...th-thank you, sir," he replied, his voice shaking. "This is a _lot_ of money. To be honest, sir—this is more than I've _ever_ earned before. In my whole _life_ , even."

"Oh shoot, well...ya' don't need to be thankin' _me,_ ya' know. Y-you earned it _yourself_ ," said Mr. Fazbear in response. Then he froze. "Wait, wh-what? 'More than you've ever earned before'? I-I mean, correct me if I'm wrong—and I very well might be—but doesn't your father own _Schmidt Electronics?_ Surely having a company as successful as that in your namesake would give you some sort of...I don't know...financial benefit?"

"You're right about him owning the company. But while our family _does_ have a _pretty decent_ amount of money to our name, my dad would prefer I save up and use _my own_ money," clarified Mike.

Mr. Fazbear blinked. Then, another small smile curled the corners of his lips upward. "Th-that's...smart," he said eventually. "Good parentin'. I mean—in my very humble opinion, anyway."

Carefully, Mike folded both checks in half, then stowed them away into his bag. "I'm sure they would appreciate hearing that. ...say, on an unrelated note, mind telling me the time?"

"Sure, sure…" Mr. Fazbear obliged. He rolled a sleeve up, then squinted down at a very expensive looking watch. He read, "It's...just turning eight o'clock, actually."

A curse left Mike's mouth before he could stop it. Awkwardly coughing in embarrassment, he quickly held a hand out to Mr. Fazbear. "Sorry, but uh, I've gotta get going, sir. Late for practice."

The old man shook the offered hand, then apologized, "I'm sorry myself! Didn't really mean to keep ya' so long, ya' know?"

"Once again, thank you for the checks, sir," said Mike as he stood and walked to the door. Opening the door with one hand and readjusting his bag with the other, Mike yelled over his shoulder. "It was nice meeting you!"

"You too—"

Any other words the old man had to say after that were completely cutoff as the door shut with a loud _thump._ Mike almost tripped over his own feet as he bolted back into the lobby. He curved sharply around the wooden desk—narrowly missing its corner by an inch or two—and into the left hallway, then continued in a sprint toward the gym door. Seconds passed. The normally quiet halls were now filled with the sounds of Mike's breathing, and the rapid, muffled impacts of shoes hitting the carpet.

Thanks to that carpet, Mike was able to stop immediately upon coming up to the door despite almost fumbling over his feet again. He turned the knob and shoved open the door.

" _There_ you are!" shouted Foxy, a tint of anger to her voice.

Having been standing by the door already, Foxy took not even a second in approaching Mike. She furrowed a brow, and put a hand to her hip. "Where the hell were ya'?"

Doubled over slightly to let his lungs recover, Mike raised a hand toward her. "S...sorry…"

"This isn't like ya', slugger," stated Foxy, not budging. "You're not usually late, let alone by nearly fifteen minutes."

"I...I know...it's just that...Mr. Fazbear wanted to talk...over in his office," Mike said, still breathing heavily.

"He did? What for?"

Nodding, Mike swallowed, and straightened his back. "For starters, he gave me two checks which, I hadn't been expecting at all, actually. In the slightest."

"Wait, ya' didn't know you…you were gettin' _paid_ for your matches?" asked Foxy, her stance relaxing.

"Not really, no."

Following Mike's response, Foxy stood there watching at him in silence. She rolled her jaw in thought a few times. Contemplating. Then she snorted. "Heh, ya' know, Mike, that alone almost _actually_ got you out of punishment for today," she told him, laughing.

"I...wait, punishment? Why? Punishment for _what?!_ "

She took a step in his direction. "Well, like I said when ya' got here...ya' _were_ late, after all," Foxy reminded him with an innocent shrug.

 _Oh…. Right._ "Okay, okay. Fine. What will this punishment _be_ then, Foxy?" Mike asked, grimacing.

Taking another step closer to him, Foxy smirked as she maintained direct eye contact with him. "Hm...ya' know...what _will_ it be...?"

With only a foot of space remaining between him and Foxy, a bead of cold sweat found itself rolling down Mike's forehead. _A little_ close _here, don't you think?_ he thought in nervousness. _Just what is she playing at?_ As Foxy closed in even farther, Mike's face flushed to a tone akin to a cherry.

Finally coming to a stop in her approach, Foxy leaned forward and brought her muzzle down toward one of his ears. "Aha~! I know what I'll have ya' do…."

" _Um_...wh-what?" stuttered Mike, awkwardly clearing his throat.

A deep breath. The rush of air lightly brushed against the sensitive flesh of Mike's ear, provoking a shiver from him. He shut his eyes, silently waiting for what would leave the vixen's lips, so ever close in proximity.

"Forty push ups," whispered Foxy. She flashed him one more cocky smirk before suddenly backing away from him, and started walking toward the collection of blue exercise mats over against the gym wall. Without even taking a second to glance over her shoulder during her stride, Foxy added, "Not only that, but you'll also have to do it with me sittin' on your back!"

For a moment, Mike simply stood there, dumbfounded and at a complete loss for any words. He shook his head and frowned, face still flushed. "Are you...are you being serious, Foxy? _For real?"_

"Forty-five for talking back, slugger!" she called out without pause.

 _Dammit, dammit, dammit, dammit…._ Mike groaned, rolling his eyes in mild irritation. A slow, long intake of air, then he jogged after the animatronic.

* * *

Wiping some of the accumulated sweat off of his forehead with his wrist, Mike sighed, basking in the cold air blown at him from his left by an oscillating fan. Part of him still wanted to be angry with Foxy for making him do extra work because of something that hadn't explicitly been _his fault_ , but...those pushups really hadn't been _as_ terrible as he thought they would.

Since Foxy was a mechanical being, it hadn't surprised Mike that she was nearly equal to his own weight, but while _that_ made the push ups themselves much more difficult than usual, forty-five push ups weren't that many for what he was used to doing. He would do forty push ups—then he would take a quick breather. Then he would do another forty push ups. After that he'd take another break. Rinse and repeat a few times, and you have his usual amount. Forty-five was nothing.

 _What the hell was that_ before _workout, though?_ wondered Mike. Getting so close and personal, and with the way she had been speaking...so very strange for somebody like Foxy. And feeling her literally _sit on his back_ while he did push ups didn't make that any better.

After some additional thoughts on the topic, Mike rolled his eyes and smiled. _Just messing with me as always, I suppose._

"So...Mike," began Foxy, catching his attention.

He turned his head to look over at the vixen, who stood, facing away from him, over near a cluttered shelf against the wall. "Yes?" he replied.

"Ready to watch this recording of Toy Bonnie's fights, now?"

"I've been ready."

Foxy retrieved a transparent DVD case from off of one of the racks, and walked over to him. "Here," she said, and handed it over. "Got it last night."

Taking the case in hand, Mike inspected the disc through its plastic. The "label-side" had no such thing, instead somebody had written on it in sharpie pen. _.#1-5._ Mike hummed in impression. _If that means what I think it means...then she's only had up to FIVE fights before now. That makes me number six._ He found himself smiling in pride, but upon flipping the disc over and spotting a certain aspect of its "record-side", that smile faded until it was a straight, thin line. "Oh."

"What is it?" asked Foxy. She gently took the casing back from him and decided to search it over for herself. Nothing out of the ordinary. It looked completely normal to her. Foxy let out an amused laugh, held the plastic case to her hip, and peered back at Mike. "...is it fake or somethin'? What's the issue here?"

"No! Nothing like that, no. It's just that it's a...well—a blu-ray disc."

"...and…? We'll just watch it in my room, then."

"Blu-rays don't work on ordinary DVD players, Foxy," Mike stated matter-of-factly.

For a second, the full impact of what he said didn't quite hit Foxy. The moment it did hit her, however; so did her palm against her face. Throwing her head back, Foxy groaned in exasperation.

"Well, ain't that just fan-fuckin'-tastic, then!" she exclaimed. She glared holes through the blu-ray disc in question. "How the hell are we supposed to watch this then?"

Once again leaning forward in his chair, Mike scratched his chin in thought. _Since we unfortunately can't watch it in here, and we can't watch it in her room either...that leaves out our two only viable options. ...unless…._ Hesitantly, he looked up at Foxy, then looked away again. "I...I think I've got an idea on how to solve this."

"What do ya' have in mind? Got a blu-ray player we could use?" asked Foxy, her facial features relaxing into a calmed curiosity.

In spite of himself, Mike nodded with a chuckle. "Yes, but...that would mean...ah, hell, I'll get straight to the point—Foxy, how would you feel about another visit to my house?"


	16. Popularity?

Vacuum cleaner in hand, Kim bobbed her head to the beat of the hip-hop song currently blasting through her earbuds. A small, yet satisfied grin rested upon her face as she simultaneously cleaned and jammed. Having heard this very song multiple times before, Kim had the whole thing memorized; she mouthed along in-time to the words as they came. She tilted one of the living room chairs back with one arm, quickly eliminated any accumulated dirt or dust in the carpet under it, then—hips still swinging—let the chair drop back down onto the floor. As the chorus of the song came up, Kim got the urge to sing along with it.

Just imagine the shock on both Mike and Foxy's faces as they walked in on Kim chantin' all about the _shoop shoop ba-doop._

Kim heard the front door open despite the music blaring through her earbuds, and nearly threw the vacuum cleaner as she spun around to face them. She yanked the earbuds out. "O-oh! Uh...heh. Hey, Michael, and..." The reddened skin on Kim's cheeks flushed even darker as she noticed the animatronic vulpine accompanying her son. "F-Foxy!"

For a second, Mike worried that his mom was about to pull Foxy into a hug again like last time. He had been dreadfully embarrassed the first time, and pairing that with having just walked in on her singing some raunchy rap song, Mike didn't think he even wanted to _know_ how it could possibly get any worse than that. Thankfully for him (and Foxy), they didn't have to worry about that.

"So, um"—Kim clapped her hands together—"what brings you two here so early? I thought there was training today."

Still speechless, Foxy raised the blu-ray in its case up for her to see. Mike waited a moment to see if Foxy would say anything, and when she didn't, he explained, "We tried watching one of my next opponent's matches, but the recording is on a blu-ray."

Kim set the vacuum cleaner down, and leaned on the back of the couch. "So, why come back here?" she asked. Quickly, she turned and smiled toothily at Foxy. "Not that I mind, of course! Just curious."

"I...we don't have a blu-ray player at the arena," admitted Foxy, her voice quiet as she brought the case back down to her side.

"Really? Huh. That's not a big deal, then," Kim said, shrugging. "We have plenty of devices able to play those things. So, where would you two prefer to watch them? You can watch in the living room, you can watch on the computer, you can—"

Mike stopped her there, saying, "Actually, we were just going to watch it in _my_ room."

"...okay," replied Kim after a brief pause. An amused grin formed on her face, and she leaned forward on her elbows. "You sure about that?"

Mike nodded, not quite understanding what she was getting at.

"Well, alright then. I should probably get back to cleaning, myself, actually," Kim admitted, replacing her earbuds.

She took the vacuum cleaner in hand, but kept it off for now, taking a few seconds to watch them descend. Right when Kim spun around to return to the house's daily cleaning, though, a thought from earlier in the day suddenly popped itself back into existence within her head. Frustrated with herself for forgetting, she slapped a hand to her face in frustration.

"Oh, shoot—wait. Wait!" she called out, a hand thrust out toward Mike and Foxy.

Only halfway down the carpeted stairs at this point, Mike and Foxy paused in their steps to give each other a glance, then quickly climbed back up to the ground floor.

"What is it?" asked Mike.

A hand still resting on her face, Kim shook her head and pulled the earbuds back out. "I'm sorry, I...forgot—there was something I wanted to show you." She once again set the vacuum cleaner down. Walking around the couch, Kim took a seat in her usual workplace—a cushiony office-chair, situated at a comfortable distance from a computer desk of cherry wood. "Come here for a sec'. You too, Foxy."

The two obliged, with Mike taking a knee to his mother's left, and Foxy just awkwardly standing to her right. Meanwhile Kim went about working the computer. She shook the mouse to awaken the sleeping beast, and as soon as the screen blinked to life, Kim pulled the keyboard-tray out and typed her password in with fleeting fingers. The screen lingered only a beat before transitioning to her desktop, and within seconds she had the browser open.

"So, I was working on the company's social media page, right?" stated Kim, her eyes never leaving the screen as she typed away.

"As usual."

Intrigued by the strange, new technology, Foxy edged closer to get a good look at the screen. "Social...media?" she asked.

"Yeah." Sensing the confusion in the animatronic's voice, Kim came to a realization that it was very possible Foxy had never actually encountered a computer. Or used the internet, for that matter. Kim couldn't be sure of this without asking, though—for all she knew, maybe Foxy had just never used social media before. "Social media is a thing where companies, musicians, or athletes can communicate with fans and/or consumers."

"Or it's just person to person."

Foxy blinked. "I'm...not sure I'm following, really."

That statement right there pretty much proved Kim's theory. She finally stopped her typing and turned the chair to face Foxy, and flashed her a friendly smile. "...you've never used the internet before...have you?"

Mildly embarrassed, the vixen looked away. "...only for finding books..."

"Well, that's not a problem, I suppose," began Kim, crossing one leg over the other. "I'll just have to teach you how to use it one of these days."

Foxy's eyes widened in shock. "No!" she exclaimed, fervently shaking her head again. Seeing the strange look given to her by both Mike and his mother, she nervously laughed and cleared her throat. "I mean...you don't really need to do that, Mrs. Schmidt."

"Nonsense, Foxy—I insist. Really! This is important knowledge to have. Internet know-how is almost essential to live in the modern world."

"You've done enough for me as is, Mrs. Schmidt."

Kim giggled. "Don't worry about dinner. Vick and I just wanted to meet the woman nice enough to not only train our son, but to save his tail when some crazy person threatened him."

"Tha-that was nothin', Mrs. Schmidt—"

" _Kim_ , Foxy. Call me Kim."

Taking a deep breath, Foxy said, "Kim, I...I was just keepin' him safe is all. For real, it's fine."

"It's not fine, though." Kim's gaze hardened, and she leaned forward in her chair. "Mike could've _died_ , Foxy, and I couldn't have done a thing to help him." A tired expression suddenly coming to her face, she continued, "But he survived that encounter—because of you. We'll never be able to repay you for that, Foxy. _Never_."

Foxy gulped, and looked down to the computer desk. "...I mean, if it wouldn't be too much trouble to teach me, that is."

"It'll be easy, trust me. You'll get the hang of it in no time," assured Kim, her expression softening as she grinned again. Foxy returned the smile, albeit a bit smaller.

"Back to what you were saying before, mom?"

Both of them looked over to the kneeling man, a brow quirked on his face. Kim chuckled and turned her chair to face the computer. "Right, right." She typed a couple words in the search bar. "Anyway...going back to what I was talking about with athletes, Michael—while I was working on the company's page today, I suddenly came up with the crazy idea of making a page for _you_."

For a few seconds, Mike's mother's last few words rattled around in his head. His expression blank, he eventually mirrored, "...a page for me."

"Mmhm! I know you've never been a huge fan of social media and stuff like that, Michael," Kim began, looking over at her son, whose expression still hadn't changed. "But I figured this could be like a thing for fans to follow. Not a personal thing, of course."

"Follow? That's...a little creepy soundin'," Foxy interjected.

"Not _actually_ following, Foxy," said Mike, the shadow of a smile on his face. "Just, like, keeping up with how somebody's doing."

He turned and peered at Kim as the cheerfulness faded from his face. "You made me a page, though?"

"Yep, and—well—I think you should just see for yourself how popular it is already," stated Kim. She backed the office chair away from the desk, then got to her feet. Kim offered the seat to Mike with a wave of her hand.

Begrudgingly, Mike stood, then slumped back down into the cushioned chair. He squirmed, the nearly _over-cushioned_ chair feeling foreign against his thighs and back. It wasn't often that he used the living room computer. Once he got relatively comfortable, though, Mike followed his mom's pointed finger and looked at the screen. He scanned through the information displayed until he found exactly what Kim was talking about. Needless to say—his jaw dropped in awe.

" _Seven-hundred-THOUSAND_ followers?!"

"Yup! Nearly _eight_ -hundred-thousand, actually," replied Kim, slyly smirking.

Her earlier smile growing, Foxy asked, "Correct me if I'm wrong, but did ya' just say Mike has nearly eight-hundred-thousand fans on this site?"

"And counting."

Impressed by the sheer _scale_ of how many people knew about Mike already, Foxy let out a low whistle. It had only been a little more than a week at this point. Sure, she remembered the matches being a really popular event on both television and in-person back in her day, and with that having been around thirty years in the past, it was pretty obvious to her that it would be even _bigger_ now. But until this moment—the actual impact of the numbers hadn't hit her.

Thoughts similar to those were also running through Mike's head, but with them being related to HIM, they were amplified tenfold. He could've been some existential philosopher, or even some big-dicked English major with a Ph.D. in creative writing, and the words that first came to mind would've been the exact same.

"...wow."

"Pretty neat, right?" asked Kim, taking the mouse in hand. She scrolled through some of the posts already gathering on his page. "And it's not only that! I created this page _today_ , Michael. Just...try to imagine how big it'll become as more and more people find out about it."

Eyes glued to the screen still, Mike swallowed and took a deep, shaking breath. "...just...how, mom? How so many people?"

"Are you kidding?!" asked an astonished Kim. "You fought in the _Freddy Circuit_ , Michael! And not only that, but, well...you _beat Toy Chica_." Kim leaned over slightly, resting a hand on her son's shoulder in pride. "Few people can say that."

Unable to look his mother in the eyes, Mike turned his head and looked over at Foxy, who gave him a proud smirk. The hand on his shoulder felt much heavier at that moment. He looked back to the screen and saw that the number displayed hadn't suddenly disappeared, nor had they changed. They were real. Mike squeezed his eyes shut, lowering his head toward the floor as shuddering breaths began coming to him.

The feeling of extreme joy, combined with the shock of it all was just too much for the normally stoic man. What seemed like impenetrable, cast-iron barriers—put up around himself since a young age—cracked, showing their first signs of weakness. For the first time in what seemed like an eternity to him, Mike felt tears coming to his eyes.

The sight stabbed through Foxy's heart like a hammer-struck nail. "S-Slugger?" she whispered, shocked. Upon hearing her voice, the man quickly tried to wipe the tears away. She instinctively reached out her hand, gripping Mike's in her own. "Mike…."

His mother noticed it, too, but said nothing, instead just squeezing the hand on his shoulder.

"I—I'm fine," said Mike after a minute, his voice still shaking. Once again, he tried to clear his eyes of any tears and sniffled. "I'm fine. Really."

Both Foxy and Kim looked at each other for a second, skeptical, then back to him. He swallowed, leaning back in the chair, and gently rubbed his eyes. Mike sighed, rolling his shoulders. "I...what now? ...what will I even _put_ on here...?"

"You won't have to worry about a thing, Michael," assured Kim, softly laughing. "I've handled the company's page for _years_ , now. I can handle this one, too."

"I—okay. Okay. Um...t-thanks…." He cleared his throat, suddenly feeling awkward with his mother's hand still resting on his shoulder. Gently, Mike pushed the hand off.

"Don't worry about it. And anyway, aren't you two supposed to be watching some fights right now?"

Both of them nodded.

Although she didn't say anything about it, Kim couldn't help but also notice that Foxy still tightly gripped Mike's hand. And not only that, but Mike hadn't made her back off, or hadn't even just flat-out denied her. That realization alone brought a goofy smile to the mother's face. "I just wanted to show Michael this, is all. And I figured that since you were here, anyway, I might as well show you too."

Foxy smiled, nodding. "It was cool."

"I...I don't even know what to say, mom," said Mike, standing up from the chair. It was only then that he took his hand away from Foxy.

"Don't have to say a thing, Michael," Kim told him. _Your reaction was enough!_ she thought. "You two go watch your fights now."

Right as the two of them approached the descending staircase again, Kim stopped them for the second time. "Oh, and...one more thing, Michael?"

"Yes?" asked Mike, looking over his shoulder.

His mother's face subtly softened as she told him, "Don't forget you have an appointment with Dr. Klein later."

Mike clenched his jaws at her words, his expression becoming unreadable to the animatronic vixen next to him. _...appointment?_ wondered Foxy, arching a brow. _The fuck does she mean by that?_ She looked over to Mrs. Schmidt—Kim—then turned back to Mike, the suddenly lowered mood concerning her.

"What time?" Mike asked.

"4:30," answered Kim, walking over to where she had set the vacuum cleaner previously. She quickly checked a clock, and added, "It's just about eleven now, so you've got plenty of time."

"Got it. Thanks."

With that, Mike turned his back to her and motioned for Foxy to follow him. The soft hum of the vacuum could be heard as they descended down the short staircase leading into the basement. Neither Mike nor Foxy said a word to each other. As soon as they reached the base of the stairs, though, Foxy turned, and stopped Mike by throwing an arm out in front of him. He looked at her, confused. "What?"

"What the hell did she mean by 'appointment', Mike?" asked Foxy, looking him straight in the eye.

It was only from that held gaze that Foxy could see the barest hints of a discomfort in him as he answered. "I just have to go see my doctor," said Mike. "It's nothing bad, it's...just a yearly thing I have to do is all."

Foxy lowered her arm, somewhat satisfied by the answer. There was more she wanted to know, but she knew they had business to attend to—it was the only reason they had come here today. Mike shrugged, and walked past her. Turning right around the corner, he called out behind him. "Come on, let's go and get this over with, Foxy. Follow me."


	17. That Damn Rabbit

Compared to the rest of the Schmidt household, the basement ended up being a lot smaller than Foxy had expected. Like the rest of the household, though—the spicy smell of cinnamon lingered lightly in the air. It was a stark difference from the arena's dull lavenders...but a welcome difference at that. There was only so much of a smell you could take before you didn't even notice it anymore. Mike lead her right from the foot of the stairs, then stopped. He reached to one of the walls and flicked a light-switch upward. From a domed ceiling lamp above, bright light flooded the hallway and revealed its tangerine-orange walls and white carpeting. Photos of the various Schmidts lined the left wall, and adjacent to them were two doors.

Mike nodded toward the first door as he walked past it. "This," he said, glancing at Foxy. "Is the guest room. In case any of my dad's business associates ever stay for the night."

Foxy nodded at the explanation, taking note of it. _Good to know, if I ever happen to—_ Blinking, she stopped that thought right in its tracks. _Fuck, I'm not sure if I could even_ handle _that…._

When Mike came to the next door, he stopped, took the doorknob in hand—then paused. A deep breath. He spun around to look at Foxy. An awkward grin curled his lips as Mike scratched the back of his neck. "And this one, well...is my room."

Foxy followed silently behind the man as he walked into the room. He leaned against the door, allowing her to walk inside before closing it behind her without a sound. "You can set your coat on the chair," offered Mike. He threw his own coat onto the bed. Foxy followed his pointed finger and quickly found the mentioned chair tucked into an ebony computer desk. Once her beat-up jacket was draped over the seat's back, Foxy took a moment to observe Mike's bedroom.

A certain lack of decoration was immediately apparent. A single poster stretched across part of one of the walls (Foxy had never heard of this 'Rocky' character), and next to that hung a framed family picture and a calendar. Under that poster, a short wooden dresser held up a large TV. The piece of technology made the old TV back in her room look like a literal _fossil_ , which brought a hint of jealousy out of Foxy. Shaking the feeling from her head, she looked across from the TV over at Mike's bed.

 _Fucking HELL,_ thought Foxy in awe, taking tentative steps over to the bed. _It's like it's made for_ five _people—let alone a single person._

A nightstand occupied the leftover space in the corner by his bed. On the side of the bed closest to her, a shelf stretched from the floor to the ceiling, and held a movie collection that—while it didn't rival her collection of books by any means—it was impressive in and of itself.

During Foxy's inspection of his room, Mike had awkwardly stood there not daring to make a peep. He tried to gauge her opinion through facial expressions alone, but for the most part he couldn't read her.

"Comfy," stated Foxy.

Mike blinked. "What?"

She turned to look at him, shrugging. "Your room's pretty damn comfy," said Foxy. "Though having only seen my room before this, I guess you might not think that much of a compliment." There was a slight sadness to her voice as she spoke that second part.

"Oh, well...thank you, I guess," replied Mike, rubbing his neck as he still stood in the middle of the room. "And like you haven't seen any other bedrooms, this is actually...well...the first time I've really _showed_ my room to anybody out of the family."

Foxy noticed the man's flushed cheeks and chuckled. She held up the blu-ray case still in her hand, wagging it in the air to catch the man's attention. "Wanna get started?"

Clearing his throat, Mike rapidly nodded and put a hand out, saying, "Sure."

Once the case was in Mike's hand, he walked over to the TV and picked up the remote by it. He pressed a button, and the screen instantly flashed to life to show a blue screen. A movie had been watched the night before. At least that meant Mike didn't have to switch over to a different channel—it was already on the correct one.

The TV sat on top of the blu-ray player. Mike ejected whatever disk had been left in there, set it back into its left out case, returned said case to its rightful spot on the shelf, then walked back. He held up the transparent DVD case of the recorded matches, looking right through it to see the disc in all its glory.

 _#1-5_

Once again, the thought that Mike was soon going to be among the very few to ever face Toy Bonnie in the ring came to mind. He still felt the pride swell up in him like before, but this time he allowed not even a grin to form. At least...not until Foxy spoke up.

"In case you were wonderin', slugger—the '1-5' part means you're actually the _sixth_ person to get to fight this bunny."

"Figured. And how many have beaten _her_?"

Foxy smirked, snickering. "None."

Turning away from her, Mike couldn't help the smile this time. He took the matches' blu-ray out from its case and carefully set it in the player's tray. It slid close without a sound. Suddenly, a thought came to Mike's head and he spun around to go turn his lights off. As he walked back toward Foxy, though, it finally hit him that he had only one chair in his room. And there were two people. Not only that, but with how perfectly the bed was situated right in front of the TV, it became very clear to Mike that it was the best option in viewing the tapes.

"I guess we'll just have to...you know, sit on the edge of my bed," said Mike, slumping down onto the mattress and patting the spot next to him.

Despite having already sat next to the man on _her_ bed several days before, something about this seemed completely different to her than on that occasion. The stark difference in her emotional state made Foxy more aware of the current situation, and along with that—it also made her more aware of what certain... _connotations_ could be drawn from it. What with sharing a bed and all. These thoughts in mind, it shouldn't have come as much of a surprise that the fur around Foxy's cheeks were a darker shade of red as she took the offered seat. The room's darkness prevented Mike from seeing that, thankfully.

Feeling the mattress shift slightly from the additional weight, Mike picked up the remote. "You ready?" he asked.

Foxy nodded, her cheeks still burning. _Get a fuckin' grip, girl,_ thought Foxy. _I think you've read one too many 'adult' books for your own good._

* * *

There was a menu this time. Granted, it looked like something a graphic designer would throw together in five minutes, but it was a menu regardless. Plain white text on a dark gray background, with a picture of a blue rabbit—Toy Bonnie herself—winking at the camera. Mike took a second to read through the five options listed in white.

 _March 4th, 1990 / Bones / KO_

 _January 5th, 1992 / Rodriguez / KO_

 _August 1st, 1999 / Miller / TKO_

 _June 20th, 2004 / Akhtar / KO_

 _April 8th, 2012 / Petrov / KO_

Mike quirked a brow. "So, it's been a long time."

"Competent boxers are a rarity at the FBF," replied Foxy, shrugging.

 _I'm assuming it goes by date, name, and result of the match. Which means that, aside from Miller—every single one of Toy Bonnie's fights ended in a knockout so far._ Knowing that, Mike felt a chill run down his spine. He took a deep breath and rolled his shoulders.

"What's takin' so long?" Foxy asked with a snort. "Let's start with the first."

Grunting, Mike rolled his eyes and pointed the remote at the blu-ray player. He pressed 'select'. Instantly, the menu and picture of a winking Toy Bonnie disappeared from the screen. A few seconds later the gray background also faded, only to be replaced by an aerial view of the arena, which itself looked a little different this time. It lacked the vibrant reds of Foxy's time, but didn't have the green color scheme of the present, either. The ropes around the ring were instead a cool blue.

Along with that, seats in the crowd were also blue—though with the vast sea of people standing among them, it was difficult to even see that. Though the blu-ray's superior visual quality made it easier to distinguish features of people in the crowd despite the height, and hell—Mike could even read a sign or two this time.

 _GO BONES!_ A supportive one for the night's challenger.

And, complete with crudely drawn boxing gloves and all, a...not-so supportive sign: _TEAR HIM APART, RABBIT!_

Speaking of the rabbit, Mike took a moment to look over at her...only to find himself simply _dumbfounded_. She didn't have the body of a typical athlete at all. Toy Bonnie's physique appeared as if it would more well-suited to posing on the cover of Playboy than to be throwing fists in the ring.

Foxy stared intently at the screen, rolling her jaw as she frowned. In a contrast to this, Mike showed no visible reaction.

Before either of them could even get a good look at the aforementioned challenger, though, the referee climbed up into the ring and brought the microphone to his mouth. The voice that left his mouth cut through the blaring chatter of the crowd like a sword of fire through butter. Within seconds, the populace of watchers quieted down.

"Goooood evening, ladies and gents," began the ref, his smooth, deep voice echoing off the distant walls. He dramatically raised a hand to the blue rabbit to his right. "In this corner, we have somebody you folks won't be too familiar with, but I assure you—you'll _love_ her! Weighing in at a light 156 pounds...with the body of a supermodel, but the speed of a cheetah...the one, the only...Tooooy Bonnie!" The crowd roared in approval at this introduction, and the rabbit herself spun around to wave at the crowd.

As the referee moved on to introducing Bones, Mike glanced over to Foxy and cleared his throat. Foxy blinked twice before turning her head toward the man. "Mm?"

"So...she's the one I'm going against in a couple weeks. Right?"

Foxy nodded, shifting in-place on top of Mike's comforter. "Bingo," she answered.

"Same model and everything?"

Humming an affirmation, Foxy looked back to the large screen. And there her gaze stayed for but a moment before she suspiciously peered over at him again. "...why do ya' ask?"

"It's been twenty years or so since this match. Wouldn't do me any good if I ended up fighting a completely different version than the one we're about to watch," said Mike with a roll of his eyes.

Whatever Foxy had to say in response to that was interrupted when the bell rang twice, its two strikes signalling the start of the match. The conversation completely halted when a shift in _c_ amera _a_ ngles gave them a closer look at the ring. Before Bones had even taken a step, Toy Bonnie was already in the center, rapidly shifting her weight between feet.

Bones jogged toward her. Once he was standing only a couple feet away from her, Bones and the animatronic moved to slowly circle one another. Bones's gaze was unwavering, his stance steady and calm. Toy Bonnie knocked her gloves together in a taunt. They continued circling.

Deciding he had had enough of waiting, Bones moved first and attacked with a right cross. From his expert stance and movement alone, Mike and Foxy knew the hit would definitely leave its mark on the rabbit once it hit her. Yet he hit nothing. Toy Bonnie sidestepped the first punch. And when the second punch came, she leaned out of its way with ease, easily outpacing the man. From the camera's nearby positioning, Mike could clearly see the astonished look on Bones's face.

"She's fast," commented Foxy, scratching her chin with her hook.

Mike didn't reply, instead continuing to watch as Bones continued his assault. Brow furrowed, he stepped again toward Toy Bonnie and threw a jab at her. This time, Toy Bonnie raised her arms, deflected the light hit away, then stepped to the side. Bones followed her movement with his stance, keeping her in front of him while also maintaining a good distance. As he spun his hips to strike again, however, Toy Bonnie moved back to her original position in the blink of an eye. His right fist curved by, cutting uselessly through the air.

In a blur, Toy Bonnie rushed forward. A gloved fist swung up and collided with the man's unguarded chin, the sheer speed behind the hit knocking the man back. He recoiled back, fists instinctively hovering in front of his face to cover his now throbbing jaw as he waited for additional hits. But as he waited for a few seconds longer, Bones realized that none came. Hesitantly, he eyed Toy Bonnie.

A smirk curled Toy Bonnie's lips, and surprising all spectators of the match—past and present—she playfully winked at him. Bones blinked. Keeping her right arm and hand tucked in close to her, Toy Bonnie reached her left arm out and motioned the startled man forward with a wave of her fingers.

Shock quickly turning into a fiery rage, Bones ran forward, reeled his strong fist back, then hurled it at her. Anger had sped the man up quite a bit for sure. Even then, Toy Bonnie was still much faster. She shifted to the side and let Bones's haymaker fly past her. Completely missing his target, Bones was taken a few steps forward by his momentum before he could recover. He quickly turned to face Toy Bonnie again. What happened next made Mike and Foxy's jaws drop.

"Wait!" exclaimed Mike, hands fumbling with the blu-ray player's remote to pause the recording.

Foxy's eyes were wide with confusion and shock. She opened her maw to speak, paused, closed it, then opened it again. "What the _fuck?_ "

To her left, Mike stared transfixed with the image frozen on-screen. "Is...is that even allowed in the Freddy Circuit?" he asked, turning his head to look at Foxy. "Can you even legally _do_ that?"

"Not that I know of!"

"I...I have to see that again," commented Mike, pressing the remote's rewind button. Not even a second later, he pushed 'play'.

The recording resumed right back before Bones had missed his long, drawn-out swing. Mike and Foxy watched in bated silence as Toy Bonnie dodged the punch, and right as Bones turned to face her again, the two took a collective breath.

Both Bones and Toy Bonnie had resumed their usual fighting stances, though with Bones more on the defensive. Suddenly, Toy Bonnie lifted up onto the balls of her left foot and turned on it. Knee coming up, she spun her right leg up and around and grunted. Her shin narrowly passed through Bones's guard. He probably felt the wind pass right above his upheld fists before being struck. And with an impact much akin to a baseball bat, Toy Bonnie's shin crashed right into his left cheek.

He was out like a light, his limp body actually _spinning_ as it was flung to the floor from the force of the hit. The crowd's roaring was the only sound able to be heard for the next few seconds, until the referee climbed up under the ropes and got into the ring. Microphone in hand, he leaned over the collapsed man.

"One…!" he shouted into the mic, showing the number with an upheld finger. His voice had near no effect on the audience's wild screaming. "Two…!"

There wasn't much a use in counting, however. The winner of the match was crystal clear to every individual watching, even before the referee had even stepped in. In Toy Bonnie's very first match as a guard of the Freddy Circuit, the animatronic had knocked her opponent unconscious within the first minutes of the _first round._ And she had only been hit once. A light jab.

The recording against _Bones_ cut-off then, fading to darkness before going back to the main menu. And there it remained for the next few minutes as Mike and Foxy sat silently on his Mike's bed. For a time, neither of them spoke. Their eyes stared blankly at the television screen. It was Foxy who eventually broke the silence.

"That sure was...somethin'."

Mike blinked, dryly swallowing before he mumbled, "I'd say."

"Ya' think it was only a one time thing?" Foxy asked.

"Guess there's only one way to find out." Mike raised the remote.

* * *

Several hours had passed since her and Mike had watched Toy Bonnie's recorded fights. Foxy was now back at the FBF Grand Coliseum like every other night. But ever since Mike had dropped her off, Foxy had sat alone within the dimly lit, but relatively safe-feeling storage area. Thoughts of those matches still ran through her head, the fights themselves playing over and over on repeat. Foxy wished she had a blu-ray player of her own at the moment, so she could actually watch the matches and scan through them at her own pace. Tough shit getting one of those things, though.

Foxy grimaced, shaking her head. She leaned back in the foldable chair, her hook slowly running up and down the underside of her chin. "How...the _fuck_...am I gonna train him for...for _that_?" she asked aloud. Aside from the sound of her own voice echoing off of the nearby walls, no answer came.

 _Toy Bonnie ain't as quick as I was back in the day—that's for sure. But she's fast_ , thought Foxy. She raised a single finger on her hand. _I can see that causing some trouble for Mike. He's not slow himself, to be perfectly honest, but such a sudden increase in speed from his last opponent could mess with him. Toy Bonnie makes Toy Chica look fuckin' pathetic in that regard._

Foxy shook her head again, though this time a small smile crossed her lips. _Guess I'll just have to see how he adapts to that. I'll do what I can to prepare him._

Another slender, fur-covered finger raised on Foxy's hand. _That kicking, though...when in the living FUCK did_ that _become legal in the Freddy Circuit?_ The smile on her maw disappeared as she thought. _...did the rules change_ for _her? Has the FBF really come so far as to bend the rules_ for _the_ fighters _?_

Foxy felt an white hot anger rising in her chest. "I'll definitely have to talk to Mr. Fazbear about this…" she grumbled with a roll of her yellow eyes.

And last, but not least—she raised another finger to emphasize the third point that came to mind. _Toy Bonnie's incredibly cocky. Not only that, but she's a flirt._ Foxy grit her teeth. This wasn't really a physical trait that Mike would have to worry about, but...she really wasn't sure how he'd _react_ to the rabbit's personality.

Over the past week (and a couple of days), Foxy had actually come to grow fond of the man's behavior. He wasn't much one for goofing around, but even then he wasn't really a stick in the mud. He might've been at first, maybe, but that had quickly changed during the time they had known each other. Often he used sarcasm, and he could occasionally even make a dry joke or two. And every once in a blue moon—Mike could even be _playful_. The thing was, Mike just took what he did very seriously. Foxy appreciated that aspect of her friend immensely.

Suddenly, a thought came to her head. _Friend_. The word alone brought a strange feeling to Foxy's whole being. She felt a tightness in her throat, and the tears from a couple days before threatened to return. Sighing, Foxy let her hand and hook shakily drop down onto her lap, and she tipped her head forward until her chin rested against her breast.


	18. A Wager Made

Unlike the old guards of the Freddy Circuit, the 'toy model' animatronics actually had houses of their own, and lived away from the arena. A complete lack of matches allowed the strongest of the three, Toy Freddy, to live out of town. This wasn't so true for the other two. Most fighters lost against Toy Chica, meaning she had to face a new challenger every other week and couldn't live too far away. Thus she lived in one of the many neighborhoods in the city's outskirts, and with all the money constantly coming in from matches, she could easily afford one of the more expensive houses in that neighborhood. Such a house would be much too large for Toy Chica to live in alone, however. That's why Toy Bonnie lived with her.

Closing the bedroom door behind her, Toy Bonnie yawned and made her way through the hall towards the kitchen. She passed by an exercise room and several photographs on the wall before reaching her destination. Toy Chica already sat at the table, holding a tablet up in front of her. Hearing her enter, Toy Chica glanced up from the screen.

"Mornin'," she said simply, waving a hand.

"Good morning," replied Toy Bonnie, groggily smiling. She passed by her and opened the fridge. Automatically grabbing a carton of orange juice, Toy Bonnie shut the fridge with her foot, retrieved a tall glass from a nearby cupboard, then walked back over to take a seat across from Toy Chica.

"You know, I was kinda hoping you would've started breakfast by now," started Toy Bonnie, noting the disappointing lack of any food on the table.

With an embarrassed grin, the chicken nearly slammed the tablet on the table as she scurried to her feet. "Heh, mighty sorry Bon," apologized Toy Chica, pulling ingredients out of the fridge and various cupboards. She glanced over her shoulder. "Are pancakes okay?"

"Sure."

The sound of a whisk clattering against the edges of a plastic bowl filled the kitchen for the next few minutes as Toy Chica worked to prepare their breakfast, and Toy Bonnie worked to wake herself up. She had never been much of a fan of coffee, so she relied more on time itself to wake her up. Thankfully, the pleasant aroma of freshly prepared pancakes wafting through the small space worked wonders on her. By the time her housemate finished cooking breakfast for the two of them, Toy Bonnie (and her stomach!) had fully awoken.

A wide grin stretched across the rabbit's face as a fat stack of pancakes was set down in front of her by Toy Chica. Licking her lips, she took her fork and knife in hand and got to work. She took her time in eating, trying to savor each bite of the soft, cloud-like pancakes. This task took so much of her attention that for the longest time, Toy Bonnie didn't even so much as glance in Toy Chica's direction. When she eventually did, though, she noticed that Toy Chica had already returned to using her tablet. The butter had melted, and the syrup had already soaked into the pancakes, yet they sat untouched on her plate.

Dropping her silverware back down onto the table with a _clink_ , Toy Bonnie spoke up. "Pssst!"

Though she didn't look up from the screen or speak, one of Toy Chica's eyebrows perked up in response. At least she had heard.

"Gonna eat those?" asked Toy Bonnie.

This time, she took her attention from her tablet. "Hm? Oh, uh...yep."

"You haven't even touched 'em yet."

"I'll get ta' them in a bit," said Toy Chica, irritation evident in her voice.

Rolling her emerald green eyes, Toy Bonnie picked her fork back up and mumbled, "Yeah, by the time they've already grown mold." She took another fierce bit of her pancakes.

"Dang nabbit!" Setting the tablet on the table, Toy Chica leered at her. "Can't ya' see I'm tryin' to read somethin' Bon? It's important!"

Toy Bonnie stared back at her with an aghast expression. "What could you possibly be reading that's more important than flapjacks?"

Deciding it was futile to try and pick up on her article again, Toy Chica gave in and groaned. She begrudgingly dug into her own meal. A few chomping bites later, she stated, "Been readin' up on the most recent challenger to the Freddy Circuit."

"What makes this one so special that you need to do RESEARCH on them? Don't you get a new one every other week anyway?" inquired Toy Bonnie.

"...have ya' not been keeping up with what's goin' on?"

"Not really, to be honest."

Toy Chica glared at her from across the table.

"What? A girl can get caught up in her...training, you know," said Toy Bonnie.

"Bon...this new challenger _won_ against me," Toy Chica stressed.

"For real?"

Toy Chica nodded. "Yep. Granted, I _did_ beat him the firs' time. He ended up surprising both me and everybody else though by coming back for a rematch and...well...winnin'."

This made Toy Bonnie falter for only a second before her cocky grin came right back. She pounded a fist into her hand and exclaimed, "So it was just a close match then, huh? Shouldn't be too much trouble!"

"I...don't know about that, Bon."

"Well, why not?" asked Toy Bonnie, lightly sipping away at her drink. "Unless he's doing steroids or some shit I think it'll be fine."

Toy Chica opened her beak to reply, but paused. Should she really tell her? Toy Bonnie often talked about how much she looked up to the animatronic fighters of old—hell, they all did—so how would react if she found out one of the last remaining fighters was training her soon-to-be opponent? Toy Chica knew that since she lost, she now relied completely on Toy Bonnie to stop Mike Schmidt before he could potentially face Freddy's wrath. The last thing she wanted to do was to land such an early blow to her friend's resolve before she even fought him. ...but lying to her? Not a great option either.

"One way or another, Mike—this challenger—somehow enlisted the help of a very uh... _special_ trainer."

"Who?"

A momentary pause. Then: "Foxy herself."

The mouthful of orange juice that Toy Bonnie had just taken was spat right back into the glass. Through sputtered coughs, she exclaimed, "Bullshit!"

Having completely forgotten about the pancakes at this point, Toy Chica smiled in amusement as she lifted the tablet again. She shrugged. "I didn't believe it myself when he first told me," she admitted. "But I've _seen_ her. With my own two eyes."

Toy Bonnie gave her a suspicious look. " _Where_? Not to sound doubtful, Chica—even though I really am—but nobody has seen her since she lost DECADES ago. I mean...some people aren't even sure if she's alive!"

"I saw her at the FBF Grand Coliseum. It's where they train everyday, apparently."

To her credit, the rabbit took only a single hurried step out of her chair before she reeled herself back in. Fists clenched, she asked, "Say I were to believe you. ... _why_? What reason would she have to train _him_ in particular?" Toy Bonnie furrowed her brow, putting a hand to her chin. "What makes him so special?"

Images from the match days before flashed in Toy Chica's mind. She tried to ignore these as she reopened her device's web browser and answered, "That's what I'm tryin' to figure out, Bon."

"Well, does this guy have any social media we can look up?" asked Toy Bonnie.

"Nope." She shook her head, rapidly typing away. "I checked a few days—"

"Lemme see that for a second."

Toy Chica blinked. Then, huffing in irritation at the interruption, she begrudgingly handed the tablet over.

"What's his name? Mike...what?"

"Schmidt."

"Schmidt—got it," confirmed Toy Bonnie. She tapped the address bar on screen, and within only a few letters had a hit. A grin came to her face. "Guess you were wrong," she stated, glancing across the table at Toy Chica's confused expression. Looking back to the screen, Toy Bonnie opened the link to the man's page and instantly whispered a near inaudible 'damn!'.

"What?!" Immediately curious, Toy Chica threw herself out of her chair and quickly skirted the table. She took a kneel next to her friend and asked, "Did ya' find anythin'?"

"Yeah, think I might've found the reason you and _possibly_ Foxy are interested in Schmidt," she answered. Passing the tablet back over to a curious Toy Chica, she let out a whistle. "Guy's a solid eight!"

Toy Chica looked at her, then at the screen, then back at her again. Then she groaned. "Come on, Bon—we gotta take this seriously," scolded Toy Chica, facepalming. Slowly sliding her hand down her face to her beak, she glared at Toy Bonnie. "You're gonna be facin' off against him in only a little more than a week from now. Don't ya' think ya' should try and know who you're up against?"

 _Getting to know him might not be so bad_ , thought Toy Bonnie. On the outside, though, she sighed and nodded. "Yeah, yeah. You're right."

Together, the two of them searched through the man's information. They found that Michael T. Schmidt, despite having only become known to the public eye in the past couple of weeks—and with his account only a few days old by now—had already amassed a staggering fanbase of over four million people from around the world. And that amount was only growing. After some more digging, they also managed to find Mike's boxing record from his 'nine years of experience.'

Before challenging the Freddy Circuit, he had fought over 200 matches: 174 of them ended in victories (74 of which were knockouts), 31 of them ended in losses, and a single match had somehow ended in a tie.

"I'll give him this," started Toy Chica. "He's got a mighty fine record."

"But it's from a bunch of amateur matches, so it doesn't really count for much."

Toy Chica shrugged, shifting around in her growingly uncomfortable kneel. "True, but it's definitely a testament to his skill that he beat _me_ , and he'll be fighting you soon."

"He's not the first," Toy Bonnie shot back, finally standing up from her chair. She crossed her arms and looked back expectantly at Toy Chica.

"He might not be—but he _is_ the first to be trained by Foxy." _That I know of._

Once again, Toy Bonnie gave her a suspicious look. She sighed, then held her hands, palms out, toward Toy Chica. "...I don't think you're a liar, Chica—I really don't. So, tell me: are you absolutely _sure_ about this? It could've been a different animatronic for all we know."

"I'm positive," assured Toy Chica with a nod. "And if ya' really don't believe me, you can jus' go check it out for yourself."

* * *

With Friday's workouts just about over, Mike felt the beginnings of fatigue in his system as he socked the worn down punching bag. Despite this and a wave of other thoughts running around in his mind, he tried his best to remain focused until practice ended for the week.

Foxy silently hovered somewhere behind him. He wasn't sure exactly where she currently stood, but he felt her presence regardless. Her general quietness wasn't anything new at this point, having persisted since they watched Toy Bonnie's matches a few days previous. Mike held mixed feelings about this. _If she's quiet because of nerves, I can probably understand a little. Hell, I know I'm nervous about the upcoming match. But to think Foxy—my_ trainer _through all this—possibly worries or doubts the outcome…._

Mike grunted, throwing a particularly hard punch at the bag. Being the heaviest bag in the gym, it didn't much react to the hit, though it did leave a throbbing ache in that wrist. His frown deepened. If Foxy had been paying attention at that moment, she would've interjected to tell him 'not to kill the bag', as she had occasionally put it. For a bag meant to practice footwork and the general flow of your hits, to 'kill it' meant to try and smack it as hard as you could. Which, as Mike had experienced many times in his boxing career—tended to not end in sunshine and rainbows.

Wearily rolling the aching hand, Mike took a step back from the bag. He pulled the glove off and gently rubbed his wrist. _On the other hand_ , he thought. _She might just be quiet because she has something planned for me. ...maybe a new technique? A different strategy I can use to whoop Toy Bonnie, and handle those damn_ kicks _of hers?_ Obviously, Mike vastly preferred this possibility over the former. Without actually knowing, though, it was just a matter of guesswork for the man. He briefly considered just flat out asking her. Mike turned around to face her, but upon seeing Foxy, her eyes distant and her hook itching the underside of her maw, he couldn't bring himself to do it. Quickly, he shifted gears.

"Hey. Foxy."

Startled, Foxy's whole body flinched in response to his voice, nearly stabbing herself with her hook in the process. She took a moment to recover from this before asking, "Hm? What's up, slugger?"

"Finished up with the bag."

"Alrighty! Ya' ready to move on to your next exercise?" asked Foxy.

Slipping the glove back onto his still aching hand, Mike rolled the wrist a couple and grinned. "You bet."

"Knew ya' would be."

As Foxy raised a clipboard to check what their routine called for next, the door to the gym suddenly flew open, catching both her and Mike's attention. The two glanced over to see a shocked, blue animatronic rabbit standing there in the doorway. She stared at the two of them in awed silence. More specifically, she stared at Foxy.

"By god…" mumbled Toy Bonnie, unable to move from her stance. Her pupils were the size of pinpricks. "It really _is_ you."

Foxy glanced over at Mike in confusion, who returned the look with a equally confused shrug. Then she turned back to Toy Bonnie. "It's really _who_ , exactly?" asked Foxy, hook moving to be hidden behind her waist.

Mike noticed this subconscious action of hers, but words just weren't coming to him at the moment. He stood in silence, his glove-covered fists awkwardly held in front of him.

"You." Toy Bonnie pointed a slender finger at the vixen herself. "Chica told me you'd be here, but...never did I think it was actually true."

Foxy blinked, the clipboard dropping down to her hip. "Oh. Well...here I am," she stated, a hesitant smile coming to her face.

It took Toy Bonnie a second to process this new discovery. She took a deep, sobering breath to calm herself before a smirk came to her face. Deliberately choosing her left hand to hold out, Toy Bonnie strode over to Foxy. A difference in height forced the rabbit to look up at her as she introduced herself.

"My name is Toy Bonnie, and I've gotta say—it's an absolute honor to finally meet you, Foxy!"

The fox's chest swelled with pride at this. She accepted the offered hand, and was blindsided by how vigorously Toy Bonnie shook it. "It's nice to meet ya', too," she replied, her arm still violently swinging up and down. The smile on her maw broadened until until the edges of her canines were visible. "As I've said before, it's always nice to meet a fan."

"Hell yeah I'm a fan," said Toy Bonnie. "Used to watch your fights all the time back in the day. Needless to say, you've been a huge influence in how I fight."

Off to the side, Mike had recovered from his initial shock and watched the exchange in silence. _Hopefully this conversation passes without the rabbit paying me any attention, he thought, dropping his hands to his sides. Toy Chica's bad enough, I don't need another one…_ Suddenly, as if fate itself had just told Mike 'fuck you'—Toy Bonnie's gaze shifted over from Foxy to him. _Of course._

Toy Bonnie's eyes widened as she turned to face Mike. Once she recognized who he was, thought, her expression calmed and a playful grin took over. Giggling, she took a step toward him and offered her hand. "I'm assuming you're the Mike Schmidt I've heard about?"

Staring at the held out hand, Mike inwardly sighed before begrudgingly accepting the gesture. He shook her hand and said, "That's me, alright."

His speech was cut off by Toy Bonnie tightening her grip on his hand and pulling Mike in closer to her. She then wrapped her other arm around his back, ensuring he couldn't escape or back away. Once their faces were but inches apart, and Mike could feel her warm breath on his increasingly flushed skin, Toy Bonnie giggled again.

'Uhhh' was the best Mike could come up with at the moment. Right when he just recovered from somebody interrupting his and Foxy's routine, here was Toy Bonnie—making his mind more frazzled than a parent of five.

"Well, Mr. Schmidt, let me be the first to say that I'm looking forward to our _engagement_ next Sunday," Toy Bonnie whispered.

Now having been suddenly shoved to the side, Foxy's grin had faded. It was initially replaced by an unreadable look, but as the seconds dragged on and Mike became more and more uncomfortable, she became angry. Eyebrows furrowed and just barely stopping herself from baring teeth, Foxy took a step toward the two. She grunted and asked, "Why are ya' here, Toy Bonnie?"

Taking her eyes off of Mike—but otherwise not moving from him—Toy turned her head to look at Foxy. " _You_ , actually," she replied. "Chica—Toy Chica, you know—she told me that the legendary Foxy was training Mike here."

The clipboard in Foxy's shaking hand cracked from the pressure of her grip, sending splinters to the floor. " **HER** ," she growled, teeth fully bared.

Visibly shaken by her idol's reaction, Toy Bonnie gulped. She looked back at Mike, and his reaction wasn't much better. He had been broken from his temporary stupor and glared right at her. This bit didn't bother her at all, though, so she smiled in returned. Pulling the man closer to her—and in turn, lessening his control—Toy Bonnie asked, "So I'm assuming the two of you have a bit of a problem with her, then?"

"You...could say that…" Mike replied, taking a heaving breath through his nose.

"Damn straight!" interjected Foxy. "Been tryin' to derail Mike from his goal for awhile now." She scoffed, then mumbled under her breath, "School bus-colored feathery _bitch_ …."

With this, Toy Bonnie released Mike from her vice grip and put a hand to her chin. "Okay," she hummed. "So...she's been botherin' you, hm?"

Both Mike and Foxy nodded, and Mike took the opportunity to situate himself closer to the vixen.

"How about a wager?"

Suspiciously quirking a brow, Foxy asked, "What were ya' thinkin'?"

"If Mike beats me in the ring and wins," begins Toy Bonnie. "Then I'll get Chica to stop bothering you. I don't care if I have to physically block her or lock her in the house, she'll be out of your hair. Completely."

"...and if I lose?" Mike hesitantly asked, speaking up.

Toy Bonnie simply winked at him. "A date—just you and I!"

"You can't be serious."


	19. Fight Night

The next week passed in a blur for Mike and Foxy. They practiced and worked out as best they could in the short span of time left between matches. On a mental front, several hours were spent with the two of them just watching Toy Bonnie's previous matches, trying to garner some more insight into her fighting style. On a _physical_ front, they worked at his body like always: improving his form, stamina, and all-around strength through rigorous training. Said training was the main reason Foxy was always so adamant in making sure Mike rested on weekends. Although Mike initially resented this time off—and still did—he never argued against it. The last thing they needed was for him to worn out _before_ his second bout.

Though as Mike sat in his car in the parking lot of the FBF Grand, being worn out was the least of his worries. No, what occupied his thoughts a couple hours before the fight was his temper. Specifically—how he had lost it with Toy Chica.

"You can't afford to do that again, Mike," he said to himself, his voice sounding quiet and isolated within the dinky car. "It's a miracle it didn't cost you the match before—Toy Chica's exhaustion was the only reason it worked. Next time...next time you won't be so lucky."

Looking out the window, Mike could already see the cars of audience members filing through the mucky sludge to get into the parking lot. Not too much longer before he would have to start getting ready, too. He grabbed the door handle, just about to open it and step out...but he didn't. Not yet. With a sigh, he pulled his hand back and gripped the steering wheel. Hard.

"You can do it, Mike." His grip on the wheel tightened. "Just keep your temper in check and you can _do_ this." Pumping himself up was nothing new for Mike. The habit had persisted for years now, ever since he had first started pursuing boxing as a career. With a rocky start to a journey where many didn't believe he'd ever reach his goals, pumping himself up had been the only reason he had been able to keep pushing himself to improve. After all, if you don't believe in yourself—who will?

He gulped, then—with a deep breath, and before his nerves could stop him again—he pushed the door open and stepped out into the quickly fading daylight. Almost immediately, the cold wind hit him. Mike slammed the door shut behind him and kept his head down as he strode toward the front doors. He got halfway across the parking lot before it finally hit him that a familiar weight was missing from his back. Facepalming, he spun around and walked back to his car to grab the equipment bag, all the while cursing his forgetfulness.

Once Mike finally reached the building's entrance—bag held closely to his back by its tightened draw-string—he could see before he even opened the door that a crowd currently filled the lobby. Several messy lines of eager customers stretched out from the front desk. He pulled his hood up with trembling hands. Barely stopping himself from groaning, Mike pulled open one of the doors and stepped inside. The ambient murmur of unintelligible chatting surrounded him. Head lowered, he pushed through the crowd the best he could.

 _Almost there…_ thought Mike, his chest tightening with every glance occasionally thrown his way. Nobody seemed to have actually recognized him quite yet, but he knew it was only a matter of time before somebody did. Mike pulled his hood further over his head as if it'd make him completely invisible. A mumbled apology left his mouth as he nudged passed a mother and her two kids. Stepping around a canine animatronic, he felt he had finally gotten free of the crowd when he felt a finger tap on his shoulder. He froze.

"Mr. Schmidt? Mr. Schmidt, sir!" a feminine voice called from behind him.

 _Shit, shit…._ Slowly, and reluctantly, Mike turned his back to the corridor and safe haven from all the people to face the source of the voice. It was the newswomen he had seen interview Mr. Fazbear on TV a couple weeks ago. A cameraman followed closely behind her, and judging by how he held the camera toward them—he had already started recording. Mike Schmidt was on live television.

"Hi, Jen Bandia from Channel Eight News. Could we trouble you for an interview?" asked the newswoman, smiling that ingenuous smile of hers. Before Mike had even a split-second to comprehend the question and reply, she continued by saying, "It'll only be a minute or two of your time, sir."

Mike stared at her, glanced at the camera, then looked back at her. A voice in the back of his mind told him "Run, get outta here while you still can!". It took a lot of willpower for him to ignore said voice. He gulped, then gave her a small nod and lowered his hood with a shaking hand. "Uh, heh, s-sure," replied Mike, anxiously smiling.

"Okay, great!" exclaimed Jen. "Let's start off with the usual—how are you feeling right now?"

"I'm...feeling okay right now."

"I would sure hope so, Mr. Schmidt." Jen blew right past his answer and asked, "And tell me, are you aware you're the first fighter to beat Toy Chica in the ring in _ten years_?"

Mike nodded.

"How does it _feel_ knowing that?"

"It's—it's an honor, really. I mean, not many have accomplished what I have," Mike answered, his gaze to the floor as he rubbed the back of his head. "K-knowing all my efforts and years of training have finally started paying off is pretty nice, too."

"Haha, I can imagine," retorted Jen, quickly glancing at the camera before training her eyes on him again. "And is there anybody at home you would like to thank for helping you get this far?"

The weight of the camera's gaze bore on Mike as he swallowed. "My mom and dad, my little sister, my...my trainer—"

As if waiting for him to mention a trainer, Jen interrupted Mike and said, "Speaking of this trainer of yours—have you heard the rumors, Mr. Schmidt?"

Mike's blood turned into a frozen river of red in him when he heard that. An awkward second of silence passed before he could even muster up a response. "No, I...I haven't."

"Well, there are many rumors surrounding this, though there's definitely a more popular one of the collection. According to this most popular rumor from people who say they've seen the face of your trainer down by the ring, you're being trained by the famous animatronic fighter Linda: winner of the Texas Championship back in '92. Would you say there's any _truth_ to this rumor, Mr. Schmidt?"

Taken aback for a moment, Mike quickly recovered and shook his head with a relieved smile. "No, ma'am."

Jen looked severely disappointed by the man's answer, but went on. "Okay, well, moving past that," she began, "Is there any wife at home waiting for you? A girlfriend, even?"

"No, I'm single," replied Mike in a flat tone.

Quirking a brow, Jen nodded. "Anyway, how are you feeling about tonight's match, Mr. Schmidt? Any thoughts you'd like to give on it?"

"...I'm fairly confident in my skills," answered Mike, his face burning from the pressure of the camera. He wasn't lying, but there was definitely more to his feelings than that. Not that he'd ever admit them in public, though. "It'll be a good fight."

At this point, Jen seemed to be getting ticked off by Mike's short responses. Suddenly, she grinned, and that look on her face alone sent a shiver down Mike's spine. Her next question somehow made that feeling even worse, though. "While I won't question your skills, Mr. Schmidt, Toy Bonnie is much tougher of a fighter than Toy Chica—an opponent that you initially _lost_ against only a couple weeks ago. Surely you've thought of the possibility of losing. Tell me, what are your plans for if you lose against her?"

Mike could only stare at her for a time. "Umm…"

What _if_ he lost against her? He had considered the possibility, but he hadn't actually thought about what he would _do_ next. Would he have to start all over with Toy Chica? Or with his chance wasted, would he just plain be shit out of luck? Thoughts like these kept him from forming a coherent response to Bandia's question. Thankfully for him, a voice—somehow heard over the crowd around them—made it so he wouldn't have to.

"Miiiike! Mike, honey!"

At first, Mike thought it was Toy Bonnie who had called out for him. A shiver ran through him at the thought. Then, when the same feminine voice called out again, he not only realized where it was coming from—he recognized _who_ it was coming from. A grin came to his face.

"Uh, heh, sorry," stated Mike, laughing as he shook his head. "It's my…my fiance, guess I have to get going!" And just like that, he spun around and took off down the hall.

Even as his long strides took him further away, he could still hear Jen shout from behind him. "You said you were _single,_ Mr. Schmidt!"

Moments later, when the chatter of the crowd in the lobby sounded distant, Mike found just who he had expected: Foxy. She was there in the corridor, laughing her ass off at having just messed with the newswoman. She had her back leaned against the wall to support herself—lest she collapse into a heap on the carpet—shoulders quickly rising and falling with each outburst of glee. Mike stood there watching this display, his arms crossed. He cleared his throat to catch her attention.

Several seconds later, Foxy could finally catch her breath enough to speak. "Too—heh—too much?" she asked, the occasional laugh escaping her maw.

"A little."

"Sorry, I was waitin' outside of the gym for you to—heh—get here when I heard that lady start interviewing ya'. You sounded pretty uncomfortable...to me, at least," said Foxy, slowly pushing herself off of the wall. She shrugged, and added, "Figured I should intervene, ya' know?"

Mike shook his head, trying his best to look disappointed in her, though the corners of his lips curling upward betrayed him. "Well...it _worked_ , I guess," he admitted.

Foxy snickered and slugged him in the shoulder. "Damn straight!" she exclaimed. A smirk on her muzzle, Foxy turned and nodded her head toward the training room further down the hall. "Ready to get warmed up? We only got a couple hours before you get to whoop Toy Bonnie's ass, ya' know."

Anxiously, Mike shifted the bag on his back before nodding. His stomach was filled to the brim with fluttering butterflies. It was taking all of his will to ignore them, and even then he couldn't keep the shaking out of his voice as he said, "I-I'm ready."

* * *

Hours later, Mike stood alone in his corner of the well-lit boxing ring. A constant roar occupied the stadium's stage area that seemed to match the rumbling in Mike's chest. Along with the millions of fans currently watching the event from their homes, thousands upon thousands of men and women of all ages surrounded him in every direction.

Yet even with the sheer amount of people around him, Mike knew without even looking that none of his family were among the crowd. Mike was marginally hurt by this knowledge, knowing not a single one of them were here to watch, but he knew that the three of them had their reasons. Which is why it only _marginally_ hurt.

His dad had unfortunately left early in the morning for a business meeting, and was just now starting on his way back. It was likely he wouldn't be back home until tomorrow morning. Moving on, his little sister, Annie, had a choir event she to sing in before her winter break finally began, and their mother sat in the crowd of _that_ show. With a quick look around the packed stadium...a small part in the back of Mike's mind wishes _he_ could have been there, too. Dedication to this pursuit of fame—this journey of his that had nearly been his sole purpose in life since he was just a scrawny thirteen year old—had made him miss a bunch of important things like birthday parties, weddings, and even funerals of relatives.

"Hey, slugger!" a familiar voice called out from behind him, yanking the man from his thoughts.

Mike turned and looked down to the floor just outside the elevated platform. With a friendly nod at the figure standing there, he pulled a glove off to remove his mouthguard—paused upon remembering there was no need—then replaced the glove. "Hey!" he replied, his voice raised to be just barely heard over the chatter of the crowd.

"How are ya' feeling?" Foxy asked. She reached up to hand him a plastic water bottle.

Mike accepted the bottle, and quickly took a sip before handing it back. "I'm doing great! Feeling—" After his voice cut-off, Mike found himself unconsciously turning on a heel to gaze at the surrounding crowd. There were so _many_ of them. Millions would be witnesses to whether he won or he lost.

Gulping, he turned back to face Foxy and—once again—flinched upon realizing she had somehow leapt all the way from the floor onto the edge of the ring's platform. Beneath her hood, she had an eyebrow quirked expectantly.

 _She can already see I'm shaking in my shoes,_ thought Mike. _Might as well just tell her._

"Nervous. God, I...I'm feeling nervous."

Foxy snickered quietly in response, the sound lost beneath the ambient roaring. "Could see it a mile away," she said, her golden eyes lit up as she stared at him. After a moment of hesitation, she gripped his shoulder. "You'll do fine, Mike. Damn fine. Tell me something—do you remember all that I've taught ya' so far?"

"Hit first, don't let myself get battered, stay calm and focused, make sure to breath, and to knock that chick out," recounted Mike, mentally counting off fingers that his gloves wouldn't allow him to articulate.

With a roll of her eyes, Foxy snorted and said, "Last one applies more so to the other bitch than anything, but I'm assuming ya' get the point anyway."

Some of the butterflies faded as Mike chuckled, though his voice still shook a bit. "Of course."

It was at that point that the blaring sound of the crowd suddenly became almost overwhelming in its intensity. Before either Mike or Foxy even so much as turned to see the crowd's point of attention, they both already knew what, or more accurately— _who_ caused the uproar.

All eyes in the stadium were drawn to the mere sight of her. The modelesque Toy Bonnie stood in the doorway, hands to her hips and a cocky smile upon her face. After a few lingering seconds, she took off down the staircase in a blurred sprint. The volume of the crowd increased as she drew closer and closer to the ring, rising in intensity. By the time she actually reached the ring, the sound—only amplified by being trapped within the gigantic room's walls—had reached an almost unbearable level to Foxy's sound-sensitive ears and wasn't too pleasant for Mike, either.

Mike glared in silence, and Foxy gritted her teeth in both anger and uncomfort as she watched Toy Bonnie take her sweet time to pull herself up and over the edge of the platform. Immediately upon getting to her feet, though, Toy Bonnie turned and climbed up onto one of the turnbuckles in one swift movement, then threw both of her arms into the air.

The audience loved this. The animatronic rabbit seemed to revel in the crowd's attention, each cheer and scream and shout she earned shaking the whole stage area.

"Hmph. And here I thought the CHICKEN was a _crowd pleaser_..." grumbled Foxy, a deep scowl lining her canine features. The glow of her eyes only seemed to intensify the longer she glared at Toy Bonnie, who still stood up on the turnbuckle. "...something tells me it ain't her _boxing prowess_ they're cheerin' for, Mike."

Mike almost laughed at that. Almost. He took a shaky breath and, after a moment of hesitation, he forced himself to glance up at the countdown timer. _Half a minute left_ , thought Mike, his eyes instinctively squeezing shut as he tried to steel his nerves. _Breathe in...breathe out. Breathe in..._

Foxy startled him by grabbing his shoulder. Caught completely off-guard, Mike tried to turn and face her but suddenly found himself pulled into a one-armed hug. Admittedly, the gesture felt a little awkward, what with Foxy having to reach over the ropes to reach him, and him not being able to move much in response. Regardless of the awkwardness, though—he didn't try to move away.

"Relax, slugger," Foxy told him in a softened voice only audible over the crowd due to their proximity. She gave him a slight squeeze, her hook looped around the turnbuckle to help keep her balance. "Just...just remember your trainin'. I _know_ you'll do great."

And almost as suddenly as she had embraced him, Foxy let go, and she hopped down to the floor. "Kick her ass for me, Mike!" she shouted, cupping a hand to her maw.

Mike couldn't help but grin despite his nerves still rampaging like a stampede of wild bulls in his gut. Shaking his head, he avoided looking at his opponent in the corner across from him and glanced around the crowd some more. _Hopefully that didn't add any new fuel to the rumors._

It was just then that he noticed the referee climbing up into the ring. "Show time," Mike mumbled to himself, slamming his gloved-fists together.


	20. An Explosive Clash

All Mike felt was pain. His chest panged with a dull ache from the many new bruises and scuffs inflicted through his blue athletic shirt, his lungs burning from their constant struggle for air. His head throbbed from a particularly well-placed punch a couple rounds back, making focus a lot more difficult to maintain. Even then, though, the immense pain in his forearms made everything else pale in comparison. It was like somebody had driven railroad spikes straight through his arms—bones, muscles and all—and for good measure, had also taken a good swing or two at them with a baseball bat. With all that in mind, it should be obvious that all his body wanted at the moment was for him to just give in and quit.

But Mike didn't—he _couldn't_. Not yet. Even if it felt like his body was practically begging for him to just drop and let it rest, his mind and soul wanted otherwise. More than anything else in the world, Mike Schmidt wanted to _win._ No matter how difficult it would be.

'Difficult' indeed, as from almost the very beginning of the match, fighting against Toy Bonnie had been a challenge for him. Just like Foxy taught him, Mike started off the fight by getting in the first hit with a right jab. Followed by yet another jab. ...then another. Toy Bonnie blocked the first two of these three hits with relative ease, but with the third jab she took Mike by surprise. She sidestepped around his swing, then rocked his world with a right-armed hook to the jaw.

The stupor from that hook of hers had lingered just long enough for the rabbit to fit in a jab of her own before Mike recovered and could block. Following that, Toy Bonnie brought her lead fist forward in what looked to be another jab, but before it hit she yanked it back and used the momentum and the twisting of her hips to throw a swift punch at him.

This time Mike was ready though, and he ducked under her arm. It just barely missed him; he could feel the displaced air whip across his back and exposed neck as her fist passed by only a hair's width away. He sprung up from his near-crouching position. His dominant, left hand came up with him, whipping up toward Toy Bonnie. Even then, it just barely grazed her when she leaned back away from the hit.

While it became clear to Mike over the night that Toy Bonnie held a distinct speed advantage over him—he had an advantage of his own in sheer striking power. These traits in each of the fighters seemed to almost counteract the other. It was because of this _counteraction_ that the two of them looked to be almost an even match for several rounds. Up until Round Five, that is.

Now, leading up to Round Five, a constant nagging thought had lingered in the back of Mike's head. This thought directly correlated with a worry that had plagued both Foxy and him during the days of training that lead to tonight's fight. Something they just couldn't think of a way to truly prepare him for in the short period of time they had available to them. That worry being that neither of them really knew what to do if Toy Bonnie started utilizing those _kicks_ of hers. And the question wasn't even really _if_ that rabbit started using kicks, but _when_.

It just so happens that the dreaded moment of course came during the fifth round. Mike had known it was coming miles before the actual strike, as he had seen the initial 'pause' in her fighting. Then—as if she had read his mind and wanted to confirm his worries—she winked at him. Panicked, Mike's eyebrows shot up.

Toy Bonnie turned on a heel, her leg raised and bent at the knee. Then, it lashed out at him like a whip. Mike had not even a second to think, no time to consider the options. Instinct took over. An instant before her leg struck, he brought his arms up together in front of him in just the blink of an eye. They took the full brunt of the hit and shielded both his head and his chest from any serious damage. Even then the sheer force of the blow knocked him clean off of his feet. Mike landed on his knees, skidding an inch or two back before coming to a full stop. Truth be told, it took all of him to not cry out in pain—or even to not just collapse onto the floor—but he somehow managed to support himself with an aching arm.

It felt as if he had tried to stop a train. And failed. Miserably. An agonizing pain thumped in his forearms. Mike gritted his teeth, doing nothing to resist the white hot anger overtaking him. Driven by boiling hatred, he nearly launched himself at Toy Bonnie, who was baffled that he had somehow _taken_ that kick and was still able to fight. He managed to land only a couple of rage-fueled punches on her though before two metallic _dings_ sounded throughout the staging area. The round was over.

So here he now found himself in the present moment: bruised and battered as he trudged back to his corner of the ring. Foxy was already there, hanging by her hook from the turnbuckle of the platform with a water bottle in her hand and a look of deep concern on her shrouded face.

Her hand shook as she handed him the bottle. "Shit, slugger, are ya'...are you…? F _-fuck_ that look like it hurt—"

"I'm _fine_ , Foxy," Mike grunted through clenched teeth. He yanked the bottle away from Foxy, the quick movement getting a wince out of him.

"Don't lie to me, Mike," Foxy scolded him, "I know pain, and I could tell for a fuckin' _fact_ that hurt like a bitch."

Forgoing even a sip of the ice cold water, Mike surprised even himself by baring his teeth at the fox. "For fuck's sake—I'm _FINE!_ " With nothing else to say he pushed the bottle back to Foxy and turned away from her, clenching his fists in preparation for the next round.

Taken aback, it took Foxy a moment to recover from the man's outburst. Out of habit she opened her mouth to argue—to shoot back with something—but after a moment of consideration she begrudgingly decided against it. She instead looked over Mike's shoulder to see Toy Bonnie, who stood in the opposite corner of the ring, her back to the two of them as she talked to somebody outside of the ring.

The sight of the rabbit brought a deep scowl to her face, even more than the sight of Toy Chica. While she knew that her being Mike's current opponent had a lot to do with it, she felt there was...something else to it. She just couldn't pinpoint _what_ that "something else" was, exactly.

 _DING DING!_

And with that, the sixth round began. The two fighters walked out from their corners and met in the center, settling into their usual stances—well, Toy Bonnie did, anyway. Mike had adopted a much different stance than the more balanced stance he usually practiced. His arms were held much lower than normal, hovering just above his waist. His feet were also set farther apart, and his back bent at such an angle that he was nearly leaning completely forward.

Utterly confused, Foxy stood with eyes wide as she watched the fighters start circling each other. _What the hell are ya' DOING, Mike?_ she pondered, nervously scratching her chin with her hook.

Mike lunged at Toy Bonnie and threw a left hook. It was a wild swing, easily sidestepped by Toy Bonnie. She countered with a sharp jab to the gut, making Mike double over slightly. As she followed up with another jab, Mike instinctively raised his arms to block the hit—

Foxy winced and frowned as she heard Mike let out a yelp of pain as the gloved fist struck his flesh. He retaliated by growling and throwing another hard punch. Foxy clenched and unclenched her jaw in nervousness. "Guess you're not so fine then, huh...?" she mumbled, her soft voice lost beneath the ever-present roar of the crowd. A cold, dizzying worry continued to grow within her chest as she watched the match progress. With each punch dodged, with each hit met with only more agony, Foxy slowly began to come to a nauseating realization.

Mike wasn't going to win this bout.

Despite their training, despite all the hours of hard work the two of them had put in; Mike had simply been _outmatched_ by the rabbit, and had lost control. It came to her like an iron-fisted punch to the gut. She felt like she was going to retch. Years of experience had taught her though, that, sometimes...sometimes you had to just accept whatever negative outcome came with a match and keep on moving. Keep on moving, so you can come back stronger, and smarter than before. More importantly to _Foxy_ , though—so you could come back, and _rain down_ with the vengeance of a thousand suns.

With that in mind, Foxy accepted the inevitable. The thing was, would _Mike_ accept it? Foxy dreaded seeing how her friend would feel after the match. Even then, no matter if hurt she still had to watch the rest of said match. For the both of them.

Mike's air looked to be coming to him in deep heaves at this point, his shoulders steadily rising and falling with each shortened breath. He looked utterly exhausted, but that fiery anger still lingered within his eyes. Despite how heartbreaking the sight was to Foxy, to see him still somehow resilient also filled her with a deep sense of pride. _Stubborn as_ fuck _like always, slugger._

Foxy had resigned to just waiting for Mike to get knocked, yet her hopes were momentarily heightened when Mike somehow managed to land a devastating hit on Toy Bonnie. That smug look of her that had lingered ever since the beginning of the round had been wiped clean off of the rabbit's face when Mike's fist smashed into it like truck, briefly staggering her. She stumbled back a couple steps before recovering just in time to avoid the follow-up swing.

Brow furrowed and a frown on her face, Foxy grimaced as Toy Bonnie lashed out with her leg again. It wasn't nearly as monstrous as the first time, being just a straight kick, but it was still a strong hit to Mike's side. He doubled over in pain, only to have his head swung back by a blow to the chin. Toppling over, the man fell back and collapsed onto the white floor.

The crowd—having been only almost completely forgotten by Foxy at this point—made itself known once more as it erupted in a chaotic blend of boos, cheers, and everything inbetween. Foxy lowered her eyes to the floor. After a second or two, she heard the referee start to count. As the uttered numbers slowly climbed toward ten, Foxy felt a strange need to cry along with her already overwhelming sense of disappointment. She let out a quivering sigh and quickly suppressed this bit of weakness until it was just a dull ping in the back of her head.

"Ladies and gentlemen, it appears we have a winner for the niiight!" shouted the announcer, the microphone amplifying his voice so it thundered over the booming audience. "The lovely...Tooooy _Bonnie!"_

* * *

Hours after the match ended; after the crowd had dispersed out of the stadium, piled into their cars, and _slowly_ vacated the parking lot; after the tens of workers had finished going through and meticulously cleaning up after the fans; after nearly all of the lights within the stadium had been extinguished, shut off one-by-one by the workers as they left for the night— _one_ light still let off a weak glow of illumination. The dingy ceiling light of a cramped, messy closet-like room.

An awkward stillness resided in the atmosphere of the storage room. Despite there indeed being inhabitants within that small amount of space, few words had actually been exchanged between the two of them since they first entered. Suddenly, another group of words were added to that select collection.

"For fuck's sakes, Mike, would ya' stop fidgeting for a second?"

Letting a puff of air out of his nose, Mike worked his jaw as Foxy had momentarily paused in her tending to a particularly nasty gash on his chest. Said man lay on his back across one of the benches they had pulled from the gym, looking up at the fox in silence.

When Mike didn't reply after a second, Foxy let out a quiet sigh, but resumed the interrupted previous task; she dipped a rag into the open cooler, letting it soak in the hot water for a moment before taking it back out. After a slight squeeze to let the excess water drip back into the container, Foxy brought the rag to a spot near Mike's left shoulder where blood had already dried and caked onto the skin. Thankfully, despite how bad it may have _looked_ , the cut was actually not that deep and hadn't bled anywhere near an amount that could be considered dangerous. It _did_ stain his shirt though, unfortunately.

Blood was no stranger to Foxy. The complex, super-advanced machinery that made up the bodies of animatronics heavily imitated the biology of humans, and thus created and made use of blood of its own. Even then the sight of somebody _else's_ blood unnerved Foxy; it made her feel sick to her stomach. Because of this—and the fact that Mike's chest was exposed—Foxy tried to avert her eyes as she wiped away the mass of dark crimson from around the cut.

Under any other circumstance, Mike would've felt majorly flustered with having the fox even _touch_ his bare chest. At the moment, though, Mike's mind was still too preoccupied with other things to let something as quaint as that bother him. Sheer, unadulterated frustration frazzled his thoughts and raked through his body.

 _I...lost,_ thought Mike. The amount of times these same words had already gone through his most likely ran up into the hundreds—like a broken record player. Yet they repeated themselves over and over, each loop of the two words bringing with it a new depth to his pain. He could use any comparison that came to mind—a bullet through the chest, a knife stab to the dick, a car _slowly_ running over both of his legs—not a single one of them seemed to him like they could be any worse than the damage to his _spirit._ Physical pain couldn't even hope to hold a torch to that.

 _I lost. All those days—no,_ WEEKS _of training...down the drain. I might as well have not even tried._

Suddenly, Mike heard Foxy clear her throat. He looked up to see that she still had her eyes still averted, but she had her hand held out to him with the bottle of antibiotics.

"You...can do this part yourself," she said, sighing.

Mike slowly lifted his arm with a slight wince, the pain from the earlier kick still present as he took the bottle in hand. The gel felt initially cool to the touch on his fingers, but it quickly warmed as he applied it to the cut. He barely noticed the stinging. A second or two later, he closed the container and discarded it with an absent-minded toss.

The bottle flew end-over-end across the room, Foxy's eyes following its path until it eventually rolled under the metal shelves against the wall. Foxy bit back a remark regarding it, though her minimal irritation eventually just came out as a huff. She rolled her eyes. _Guess I'll just have to grab that in a little bit, then._

Next to Foxy on the floor sat that same old first aid kit she had been using for...lord knows how long at this point. Not that age really mattered much anyway, considering all the materials inside had been updated and/or replaced back when she first started training Mike. _Shit. It's been_ three _weeks ago already..._. Foxy almost froze in surprise—it hadn't even occurred to her how long it had been since she and Mike had initially met that night after his first match. She found herself smiling at the thought, but then forced her mind back onto the current task.

Foxy turned in her kneel to reach into the white box, and after a moment of sifting through it she found exactly what she had been looking for. Bandaging. The roll hadn't been used much since it had first been put into the kit, so there wasn't any concern about using too much of the stuff. Regardless, Foxy unraveled just as much as she figured would be necessary for this injury and used her hook to cut it from the roll.

She almost considered letting Mike do this part again, but ultimately decided it wasn't _that_ big a deal and shrugged it off. "Just...gotta be careful with the hook, I guess..." she muttered, gulping.

Carefully, she taped the bandage onto him, making certain that it wouldn't come off for anything minus him intentionally taking it off before she nodded in satisfaction. Then, after double-checking that everything else on Mike was treated—that she could treat with the available equipment, anyway—she put everything back into the first aid kit.

"Hell, I think that's about everythin!" exclaimed Foxy with a smile, giving the man a thumbs up. "Just...rest as much as ya' can tonight and we'll try to start slow tomorrow, 'kay?"

Mike abruptly sat up and turned forward on the bench, frustration still very much evident on his face. While the fox's words would have generally made him smile, they had almost the exact opposite effect in this case. With his current mindset, and how miserable the night had gone—he didn't even try to stop the next question that left his mouth.

"Why should I even bother?"

Foxy blinked, and asked, "Excuse me?"

He stood. "You heard me," Mike blurted out, "why should I even come tomorrow? What's the point?" His clenched fists shook as spoke.

"So we can work on improvin' ya' for the next time, Mike. Why else?"

"You're not really comprehending something, Foxy, in that—there will not _be_ a next time!" snapped Mike. He paused and took a deep breath, then turned his back to her. "All people will know me as now is..."—his voice cracked before dropping to a whisper—"is just one of those guys who _lost_ against _the rabbit_."

Shaken by the man's outburst, it took Foxy a moment before she actually comprehended his words. A sympathetic smile curled the corners of her vulpine chops upward.

She reached out and patted his shoulder, though her smile lessened by a few degrees when Mike flinched on contact. "Slugger, look...losin' sucks shit, I know, but—"

"Don't you GET it?!" shouted Mike, swatting away Foxy's hand as he spun around to face her again. "Me losing means—means that all of THIS"—he emphatically waved an arm around the room—"was pointless! Not a goddamn POINT to it _at all_!"

Foxy stood frozen in place, her hand still lingering where it had ended up after Mike knocked it away. Eyes wide, she opened and closed her maw several times as her brain scrambled for something to say. Slowly her shock faded to be replaced by pure _lividness_. Teeth bared, she didn't give a damn about the tears welling up in the corners of her eyes as she told him in a dangerous whisper, "You get the _fuck_ outta here."

"Are you—"

" _GET OUUUT!_ " she roared, thrusting her hook toward the door.

Mike opened his mouth to reply, to think of _something_ to shoot back with, but one look at her face made him reconsider. It was only then that some rational part of his mind realized the huge mistake he had just made. Too late, though. A raging anger still coursed through too much of his system for that to matter to him at the moment.

Swallowing, Mike turned and stomped over to the door. He swung it open, and without even a glance back at the fuming vixen, he slammed it shut behind him. That anger carried him across the gym, through the hallway, and out the front door of the building, unaware that from the moment he had left the storage room—somebody had been tailing him from a distance.

Mike didn't feel the cold, winter air as he crossed the parking lot. Finally arriving at his car—which wasn't difficult at all to find, considering it was only one of three or four left in the parking lot—he yanked open the door and threw himself into the driver's seat.

He didn't turn on the radio; Mike wasn't at all in the mood for music. He realized only then that he had left his bag in the storage room, but it wasn't like he could just turn around and go back for it at this point. With a huff, he shook his head and started his car, the low rumbling of its engine filling his ears. She could keep it for all he cared. He reversed out of the space and left the parking lot. Not bothering to look back at the building, he drove off into the night.


	21. Into the Darkness

The dull glow of an alarm clock's _1:14_ gave the bedroom a ghastly green tinge. Silence occupied the space, only occasionally interrupted by the rhythmic sound of labored breathing. Exhausted but unable to sleep, Mike Schmidt sat awake in his bed, arms wrapped around his knees and pulling them to his chest.

Every muscle in his body still ached from the fight, but aside from the more significant pain in his arms, Mike barely noticed. His eyes—long adjusted to the darkness—stared blankly ahead at the powered-down tv screen. They weren't exactly looking at anything in particular, that just happened to be where his gaze had landed sometime an hour, maybe even two hours, ago. He hadn't kept track of the time.

 _What the hell have I done?_ thought Mike.

Like a window shattered by the fist of a burly man named 'fate', his aspirations had been broken; broken into shards. The difficult, sweat-inducing, and painstaking work of nine years had been reduced to nothing in the matter of only a couple hours. Dreams made pointless. His worst fears had been made a reality, and as the night had gone on...he realize that wasn't only because he had lost.

After several years of keeping it under check—not counting the first match, where he'd lost control for only a moment—Mike had lost all holds on his temper. Not only that—he had also lost a friend in the process.

Unclenching his jaws, Mike let out a sigh. "It wasn't even her fault..."

Of course, when angered it sometimes doesn't take anything big to accidentally transfer that rage onto those who don't deserve it. It can even be something as small as somebody not looking at you. That had been the case for Mike.

Clear as day, he could still recall laying there sprawled out on his back on the warm, white canvas of the boxing ring. His head still rang from that last punch to his chin. Rage temporarily dulled by his daze, Mike could only faintly hear the referee starting his count, like they had been on opposite ends of a long tunnel.

" _...one..."_

" _...two..."_

Time moved slowly. Mike lazily tilted his head to the side and looked to where Foxy stood outside of the ring. After a second for his dragging brain to comprehend the sight, the man's heart dropped. Foxy's head was dipped forward, her gaze to the floor. She wasn't even _looking_ at him.

Mike remembered being deeply hurt by that realization, and hell—it still hurt. But it wasn't at all a reasonable excuse to explode at somebody like he did. Especially if that somebody happened to be his friend. His one and only friend in the world: a walking and talking animatronic fox.

He tried to force his mind away from thoughts of her. After all he already felt awful, and dwelling on that loss would only make things worse.

In the darkness, Mike turned his head to look at a collection of torn up and crumpled posters on the carpet. Regret at his former explosion of anger filled him, but it was already too late for them. Even in their destroyed states, though, Mike could still tell which poster was which in the darkness. There was Ali, Foreman, Pacquiao, and Louis. Even though most of their times had already passed, their names were still carried on in the minds and words of admirers and critics alike, and would most likely continue to be so for decades to come. Their legacies would still remain after they're gone.

"What about _me,_ though," stated Mike in a shaking voice. His tone was pleading, as if searching for an answer from some unseen spectator. Nothing. After a couple seconds passed of yet more silence, Mike grew even more frustrated with himself and balled his fists. "What about all those hours spent working with Foxy, huh!?" he nearly shouted at the wall, suddenly thankful for the soundproofing he had had done awhile back. "All those—all those _years_ of continuous work—taking HITS every FUCKING day in some attempt to _make myself BETTER!_ What about those?!"

His breathing quickening, he uncurled himself from his position on the bed, but right as he was just about stand up, he felt a dull tug at his chest. Momentarily distracted, Mike felt under his shirt with a sore hand and found what had caused the tugging: a bandage, applied with such care that he wouldn't have to worry about it falling off. He let his hand rest on the bandage for but a moment before letting it fall back onto his lap.

 _Not a goddamn point to it at all._

His own words haunted him. Once more, his thoughts drifted back to the treatment of his friend. _Oh, hell...Foxy was only trying to help me after...after I lost_ , he thought. Along with the anguish of having lost his dreams, a boiling pit of shame formed in his gut. _What an asshole I made of myself._

 _Even then, she had to have known it wouldn't have worked, though_ , realized Mike, _she would have known it would only upset me further_. _It just doesn't make any sense...why'd she even bother trying, then?_ As soon as the question came to mind though, the answer made itself almost painfully apparent to him. _Because she's your friend, you jackass._

 _Or WAS your friend, at least._

Sighing, Mike slumped back down into his bed. _'Jackass' is right_ , he thought, staring up at the ceiling. _She tried to cheer me up and I snapped at her like—like SHE was the reason I lost. Yet, Foxy..._ Mike gulped, and slowly, _slowly_ sat up. "She's the reason I even got as far as I did," he finished his thought in a whisper. "It was Foxy."

Before Mike even knew what he was doing, he found himself making his way over to the closet. He stepped inside, flipped the light on, and grabbed a pair of jeans and a sweater. Before his eyes had even adjusted to the bright ceiling light, he turned it back off and returned to his room. "This is ridiculous..." mumbled Mike, stepping into the jeans. He grabbed his cellphone off of the nightstand and stowed it away in his pocket.

"Mom and dad are gonna freak the hell out when they notice I'm gone," whispered Mike, though he didn't stop moving for even a second. It took him a moment with the soreness in his arms finally making itself known, but Mike pulled the sweater on over his shirt. He exited the room, making sure to close the door behind him as gently as possible.

 _I really shouldn't do this,_ thought Mike, tiptoeing across the hall over to the stairs. With no squeaking steps to have to worry about, he silently jogged up the steps. Once Mike reached the ground floor, however, it was a different story. Mike gulped. He stopped and listened for a minute. Thankfully for him, the house was just as quiet as expected at a little past one in the morning. A television could be faintly heard from his sister's room upstairs, though Mike was fairly certain she'd be asleep at this time of night since Anne had never been much of a night owl. The same could be said about Mike's father. His mother, on the other hand, had a habit of randomly being up late at night. That was exactly what Mike hoped wasn't the case for tonight.

He listened for just a second longer before letting out a bated breath in relief. As far as Mike could tell, she was asleep. You know—hopefully, anyway. Regardless of that, he was still cautious to take as quiet of steps as possible toward the front door. Before opening it, though, he made a left turn into the coat-closet right before it. In there, he retrieved both his jacket and his keys off of their respective hooks. Mike spun back around and walked over to the front door. He didn't immediately open it.

Keeping a hand on the doorknob, Mike looked over his shoulder and gave the space one last furtive glance. _I should not be doing this,_ thought Mike again, his heart beating like a drum in his chest. He swallowed what felt like a stone of apprehension. _Not at all._ In spite of that thought, Mike still found himself unlocking and opening the front door. He stepped outside.

It had gotten slightly cooler as it had gotten later. Locking the door behind him, Mike ran across the paved pathway and the grass on his way to the driveway. His car, as always, was parked right next to the family vehicle. He reached it in record time, quickly opening the door and jumping into the driver's seat to escape the cold. Then, he remembered that he was supposed to be quiet and softly shut the door. After a few seconds, he reopened the door and shut it just a bit firmer than before.

"Lousy car...," grumbled Mike. Upon Mike turning the key in the ignition, the car came to life with a wince-inducing roar. He instinctively checked the windows of the house to see if any lights came on. Nothing. Rolling his shoulders in nervousness, he carefully backed the car out of the driveway. _The point of no return._ Mike shifted the gear to "drive", and accelerated down the resting street.

Mike drove on quietly, eventually breaking free of the suburban neighborhood and getting to the city itself. His thoughts so preoccupied him that he almost didn't even notice when the buildings grew closer together and shot into the sky. At some point he had turned the radio on to try and ease his anxiety, but neither the overplayed tunes nor the drawling voice of the poor shmuck working the radio station overnight helped in the slightest. To be frank—Mike felt sick to the very pit of his stomach. _I haven't felt this miserable since...since..._ Mike caught himself, stopping his mind before it delved too far into some very negative memories.

 _What am I going to say to Foxy? What the hell am I_ supposed _to say? Will Foxy even accept my apology, or will she just laugh in my face and tell me to fuck off?_ He could even imagine Foxy's voice in his head. _"Sorry? You're_ sorry _?! Ha! Too bad, asshole—it's just a_ little _too late for that now, don't ya' think?"  
_

Time seemed to drag on. Despite there being little snow on the ground to slow the car down, or any other traffic on the roads to get caught up in, Mike felt as if it was taking forever to get to the arena. Every so often he would glance down at the radio to see what time it was, only for him to grow yet even more frustrated when he saw that it hadn't changed much at all. Simply put, Mike just wanted to arrive at the arena, apologize, and get this over with. The anticipation was like a knife in his side, digging deeper with each passing minute.

Finally, the FBF Grand Coliseum came into view. It stood as true to its name as ever. In the dark of night, the arena's looming presence once again gave off some menacing feeling, one that Mike hadn't associated with it for almost a week now. All of the lights on the outside were turned off by now, the darkness of the building appearing to simply _swallow_ the moonlight hitting it from above. Mike gulped. He spun the wheel, slowly turning the car into the parking lot. It was at this point that he was hit with a thought that—one could definitely argue— _should've_ been in his mind since he first left the house, but he had been too caught up in his worries to think of such a simple thing.

"Shit, shit...now how am I supposed to get _inside_ the building?" Mike thought out loud. The realization almost made him slam his head into the steering wheel.

Thankfully enough, some workers must've still been cleaning up after the fight, as four other cars were still parked spaced out in the lot. Mike let out a sigh of relief. As he drove closer toward the entrance, Mike eventually also noticed the dim lights through the glass of the front doors.

 _I guess that makes things_ a little _easier,_ Mike considered, pulling his car into a parking space right next to the building. The voice of the radio operator abruptly cut off as Mike shut the crap car down. Taking a second to gather himself, he took a deep, steadying breath—then stepped out into the cold, merciless night.

Almost immediately, the unease Mike had been subtly feeling in his approach to the arena erupted full , it was as if the world had suddenly stopped around him. Not a single sound could be heard aside from the unsteady _tip, tap—tip, tap_ of his sneakers on the pavement as he crept toward the front entrance. Mike constantly cocked his left and right to see if any of the last few remaining employees had suddenly made an appearance in the darkened hallways. _Nobody...nobody...wait, is that—? No, no it's not. Just my eyes playing tricks on me..._ He shifted his hands around in his coat pockets.

The lobby was (thankfully) as empty as it had usually been. Making sure to close the door as silently as possible, Mike took a quick, cautious glance into the pitch black of both hallways one more time to see if he could spot anybody—or any _thing—_ before reaching into his pocket and pulling out his phone. A press of an onscreen icon later and a thin cone of light shot out of the back of device, just barely piercing the darkness of the curving corridor. Mike gulped, and took off in a light jog.

Further and further he traveled through the hall, keeping the light trained in front of him so he could see where he was going. Not that it was necessary, of course—he had been up and down these halls enough to have almost memorized them at this point. Truth be told, the man just didn't want to have to travel through the darkness alone.

Not too much later, Mike came to the gymnasium door. The light from his phone came to rest on its wooden surface. _BOXERS ONLY._ He tentatively reached a hand up to grip the cold brass of the doorknob, but after a long moment of contemplation, Mike let his hand fall limply back to his side. While he didn't know for sure, some strange and unidentifiable—almost instinctive part of Mike told him that Foxy wouldn't be in there anymore. _Which means that..._ He slowly turned his head, and the beam of light, to look further down the hallway. _That only leaves one place for Foxy to be._

That familiar scent of lavender did absolutely nothing to soothe Mike as he slunk deeper into the hall. Soon enough, he found himself standing in front of that dreadful, unmarked door. Unmarked, of course, aside from the red tape on its handle. Something about the sight of it suddenly threw Mike's previous resolve into the garbage, and he found himself immediately regretting ever coming here.

"It'll...it'll probably be locked...," Mike mumbled, somewhat hopeful turning the metal in his hand. The door opened without resistance.

A mildewy smell once again filled Mike's nostrils when he entered the stairway, making him cringe in disgust, though he immediately forgot about the smell upon looking around. The dreary light, weak enough to leave the corners of the hall in shadows, seemed to only amplify Mike's negative emotional state. He could've sworn he felt something breathe down his neck.

Huffing in growing anticipation, Mike took his first step down the short flight of stairs. He paused. After a brief second of waiting, listening to hear if there was any noise coming from the area beyond the door ahead, Mike took one more step down. Followed eventually by another. Gradually, the confidence to make each movement forward seemed to come easier and easier to Mike. This might've very well been the result of fifty different thoughts beginning to run through his head at once, making it difficult for him to concentrate enough to really focus on his movements.

 _What am I even supposed to say to make things right with Foxy once I reach her? What do people_ usually _say in a situation like this? Will she even accept an apology if I give her one? Where would we go from here, anyway?_

As the staircase wasn't that long, however, Mike wasn't given very much to think before he reached the next door. It let out a low _creeeaak_ as Mike pulled it open. He gritted his teeth in a wince from the drawn out sound, almost certainly ruining his chance to not prematurely draw attention to himself. Regardless, he had long since progressed beyond the point of no return, and as obvious the signs that he wanted to turn back—his brain still scrambling to form a coherent plan of action for his encounter with Foxy, and his heart, racing from a tsunami of panic, seemingly beating from within his throat—Mike didn't allow himself the chance.

 _Only reason I've gotten as far as I have is because I kept going forward—even when it seems like it's ultimately a bad decision, so...here goes nothing,_ thought Mike. Dull red carpet muffled the impacts of Mike's feet, almost completely silencing them as he went on. He walked passed the three doors on the right. Each step taken lead the man closer and closer to something that was simultaneously his goal and his fear. That door lay only three feet ahead of him now, an 'F' carved into its just barely discernibly red, wooden surface.

Before Mike could reach it, though, that very same voice he had been both dreading and longing to hear came out faintly from behind it.

"H-hello? Who's at the door?"

Even with the wooden door separating Foxy from him, Mike could hear the raggedness in her voice. It sounded rough, worn out. That stabbed Mike right in the heart. _Jackass was definitely right,_ he thought, his heart dropping. It took a lot before he eventually said, "It's me. Mike."

A long, drawn-out pause. For a brief period, Mike thought she just wouldn't reply. Then—

"M-Mike?!" Foxy exclaimed, "What the hell are _you_ doing here?"

Mike winced as if the words had just physically stung him. He opened his mouth to talk—stopped, reconsidering his words, then said, "I wanted to...I need to talk to you."

"I already told ya' before, Mike, just...just leave."

"Yes, I know what you told me, but there's something I have to say—"

"Just get the fuck outta here already! Go back...back to your—to your family at home, slugger," Foxy shot back, though she had begun to sound strained at this point.

"Foxy—"

"Just _leave!_ " she repeated in a shout, her voice breaking off in the end. When she spoke again, all the force behind her previous statement was gone. "Just...leave me alone."

Mike swallowed, doing his best to keep his own emotions in check. He hated this. Absolutely abhorred it. As much as he had lost when not winning against Toy Bonnie, this was worse. Much, much worse. _I HAVE to do something,_ he thought, taking a step toward to the door. _Anything._

He mentally sparred with his better judgment for a solid minute before finally coming to a decision. Without a word—he would've lost the nerve the instant he spoke, anyway—Mike reached out and grabbed the doorknob. Trembling, the man inhaled an unsteady breath through his nose, held it in for just an instant, then released it slowly through his mouth. Mike opened the door.

The weak light coming in through the open doorway did little to break the darkness occupying Foxy's room. It traveled only a foot or two ahead of him before dimming and simply dying away, leaving a majority of the space surrounding him cloaked in shadow. Even without the usage of his eyes, though, Mike could tell from the direction of her heavy breathing that Foxy sat somewhere to his right. An image of the room flashed in his mind. _She must be on her bed._

Mike turned to face the source of the sound. "Foxy, please, I..." His voice drifted off as he found the courage within him waning in her presence. Suddenly, Mike's words from after the match came back to haunt him again. _Not a goddamn point to it at all_. Anger with himself bubbling up in his chest, Mike forced himself to speak. "Look, I-I'm sorry. It might not mean much to you, but I didn't mean what I said earlier."

No response.

Mike continued anyway. "It was just a spur of the moment thing," he explained, "I—I was angry, having lost my temper during the match, and—and losing against that damn rabbit just...I don't know...it m-made me _snap_."

Once again, Foxy said nothing, though something within Mike spurred him on. It was as if a door had been opened in his mind, and the words locked within came bursting out of his lips.

"I don't want you to think I don't care about the time we've spent together. Whether it was during training or not, me losing the match doesn't invalidate any of that, because...you _weren't_ just my trainer, and I don't want to lose our friendship."

Mike abruptly stopped talking when, out of the blue, he felt two arms wrap tightly around him. It took him a moment before he realized that Foxy had pulled him into a hug. A bone-crushing one at that. Then, Mike's feet left the floor for a couple seconds before he felt the mattress bounce from his weight suddenly being yanked onto it. Foxy's arms still wrapped him, Mike found himself in an awkward half sitting/half laying position on the bed.

The moisture of tears falling onto his shoulders brought Mike back to his senses. His eyes had somewhat adjusted to the darkness, and he could finally distinguish the silhouette of Foxy in the almost nonexistent light. For the second time in nearly a week, she had buried her muzzle into Mike's shoulder, her crying muffled by the thick fabric of his coat. Mike said nothing—he simply couldn't find the right words to say. Having never been much of a talker, this was one of the many times where that trait gave him a disadvantage. Thankfully enough for him, actions meant more than words. Acting on pure instinct, he eventually managed to awkwardly return the embrace.

"I'm sorry, Foxy," Mike repeated quietly, patting her back.

Foxy simply shook her head in response, her body still quaking with sobs. The two of them sat like that on Foxy's bed for what seemed like hours. With Mike not bothering to try and make any move away from the vixen, and Foxy still too overcome by emotion to even try moving at all. Slowly though, her bawling subsided with the passing time.

At some point later, when Foxy had eventually calmed down to just shaky breathing and the occasional sniffle, she unraveled her arms from around Mike's chest, careful of her hook's movement. The bed let out a squeak as she pulled away. Foxy settled in a seating position to Mike's right.

"S-sorry for the— _sniff_ —for the _water works_ , slugger," Foxy murmured, her eyes lowered to the floor.

"Don't be."

"..."

"I should be the only sorry one here, Foxy," replied Mike. "I'm sorry I was a, er, a _dick_ , I guess you could say. Especially after you took the time to patch me up like you did." Mike found his hand subconsciously traveling up to where the bandage still lay on his chest.

"Now that ya' mention it, you— _sniff—_ you _were_ kind of a dick..." admitted Foxy, a small smile on her muzzle.

Mike sarcastically rolled his eyes, but found himself chuckling anyway. "You know, I just remembered something."

"What?"

"Since I lost," said Mike, realization striking him with a frown. "I now have to deal with that...date...with Toy Bonnie."

Foxy averted her gaze, looking from his face back down to the floor.

"But," Mike started, "once I get that thing over with, I—I want to make it up to you. For being such a 'dick'."

"What do ya' mean...?" asked Foxy, genuinely curious.

An awkward moment of silence passed before Mike eventually answered. "...you ever go bowling?"

"Wh-what?"

"Bowling. You know, that sport where you have to roll the ball into the white pins?"

"I— _sniff_ —I _know_ what _bowling_ is, slugger," Foxy replied indignantly, a huff mixing in with her sniffling.

"Well, uh, that's good. Because I was wondering if...you know...maybe...you'd like to go with me sometime tomorrow?"

Pulling her knees up to her torso, Foxy shook her head vehemently. "Mike, ya' already know how I feel about...about leaving this place. About other _humans_."

Mike sighed and said, "I know."

Foxy instinctively opened her muzzle to say something else, but a hand suddenly on her shoulder silenced any response she had.

"Trust me though, Foxy, I wouldn't take you anywhere where there's hundreds of people at once." Mike squeezed her shoulder, and said, "I promise you'll be fine."

Mike expected Foxy to protest further, to disagree for hours and hours until he had to start begging—but she surprised him. After literal minutes of silence passed between them, Foxy asked him in a whisper, "You _promise?_ "

Swallowing, Mike nodded. "You have my word."

"I...I'll think about it."

Mike smiled, still pleasantly surprised she had given in so easily. "Glad to hear."


	22. What a Plan

For what seemed like the hundredth time that afternoon, Mike Schmidt fiddled with his tie. As with the first adjustment, nothing about it really needed changing—it looked absolutely fine. Standing in front of the bathroom mirror, it still occasionally felt as if the reflection of somebody else stared back at him. Somebody wearing a finely tailored tuxedo. Sure enough, though, this illusion was broken whenever Mike identified his own face in the glass. Despite a special cream that slightly healed the acceleration process of minor injuries, bruises and cuts still littered the face. It bore a grimace which expressed more than words could how Mike felt about tonight. With a sigh, he distracted himself once more by checking the area around his mouth.

"Good enough shaving job," Mike mumbled, rubbing a patch of skin under his chin. "Missed a couple spots, but she probably won't even notice..."

He nodded and dropped his hand back onto the sink without satisfaction. Still looking in the mirror, Mike noticed immediately when his mom stepped into the reflection of the open doorway behind him. She leaned back against the wall, crossed her arms and said, "You know very well I'm not too happy with you going out to dinner without letting me know beforehand, Michael. Especially with a total stranger."

Mike sighed, replying, "Yeah, I'm not too happy about it either." He turned to face her. "Unfortunately, I have to keep a promise I made."

"Should I even ask?" questioned Kim with a quirked brow.

For a brief moment, Mike considered simply telling her "no" and keeping his embarrassment to himself. Ultimately, though, as he brushed past his mom he asked her, "You remember Toy Chica, right?"

She nodded, pushing away from the wall to follow him down the stairs. "Of course, she was your first fight from a couple weeks ago. The one most people lose against," she answered. Then, with pride in her voice she added, "Most, anyway."

"Right," said Mike, "well, to make a long story short, she'd been getting on both mine and Foxy's nerves. Confronting us to try and discourage me from fighting—that sort of thing." He reached the ground floor and briskly turned a corner to continue down the basement stairs.

"Okay...so what does this have to do with this 'date' of yours?" asked Kim as they reached Mike's room.

Mike flicked the lights on as he strode past. Immediately, he walked between his bed and the powered-off television and headed toward his closet. Against one of the walls was a shoe rack, where Mike's dress shoes sat waiting for him. "My opponent from last night—Toy Bonnie? She made a deal with Foxy and I that if I won, then she'd get Toy Chica to leave us alone." Mike paused. "For good, hopefully."

"And since you lost..." Her voice trailed off as some sense of Mike's plight hit her.

A shoe still held in hand, Mike spun around and looked her straight in the face. He motioned with his arms up and down his body, especially emphasizing the tuxedo awkwardly hugging his muscular frame. Kim's jaw literally dropped with her realization, a hand instinctively slapping her forehead.

"Christ, Michael..." She shook her head, the hand on it slowly dragging down across her brow until it covered her eyes. "What on earth have you gotten yourself into?"

Quietly laughing at his mom's almost horrified reaction, Mike turned back around to the wall, knelt, and pulled both the dress shoes on. Whilst tying them, Mike tried to also reassure her, "Don't worry, Mom. It's not like I'll have to marry the rabbit or anything like that; it's just dinner." After readjusting the pant sleeves, Mike stood and moved to walk out of the small space. Then he messed with his tie again. "Dinner with a woman."

Somewhat relieved, Kim managed to mutter, "What a plan."

"Trust me, I'd rather meet Toy Bonnie in the ring again then have to spend even ten minutes with her at some boring restaurant," Mike stated. He grimaced. The thought of sitting in some stuffy five-star restaurant bothered Mike in and of itself, let alone having to endure a couple hours of it in the company of Toy "No concept of personal space" Bonnie. Sounded to him like it'd be as fun an experience as getting burnt alive.

"What time do you think you'll be home, at least?" asked his mother.

Mike considered the question for a brief moment before answering, "Around nine o'clock so I can change." He moved to leave the closet. Before he could reach the door, though, Kim held an arm out to stop him.

"To change?"

"Yeah," replied Mike. After an awkward few seconds of him just looking down at her, Mike scratched the nape of his neck and looked away. "...did I forget to tell you about my plan after dinner?"

The only response from Kim was an expecting raise of the brows.

Sighing, Mike lowered his mom's arm and stepped past her into the main room again. He sat on the bed, with Kim deciding to remain standing by the closet door. "To make it up to her for my being a d—a jerk, I'm gonna be taking Foxy out later tonight."

As if she had just instantly forgotten about the whole debacle with Toy Bonnie, Kim's face suddenly lit up with a grin. She took bouncing steps over to Mike, putting a hand on his shoulder. "Have you thought of where you're taking her?"

"To that bowling alley a couple blocks over."

"...interesting choice," Kim eventually responded, giggling. "You know...one of the first dates your father ever took me on was to that place."

Mike blinked. "I didn't know that, actually."

"Mmhm. Your father had a friend there that somehow managed to get us in for free," recalled Kim, a hand to her chin as she recalled the memory. Then she burst out laughing again and added, "Spent most of the night messing with us by playing some of the most 'lovey dovey' songs on the radio at the time. Mildly embarrassing, I guess, but seeing as the two of us have been together for over twenty-five years now...I'd say the embarrassment was worth it.

"Heh, sorry to bore you with that little bit of history," Kim said, subconsciously brushing some hair out of her face. "I just found it kinda interesting that you chose that ol' place out of all other options."

Mike stood, took a step in the direction of the door, then turned back to look at his mom. He shrugged. "No problem. And, well, I decided to go bowling with her because I figured it'd be more fun than just sitting in some boring restaurant for a couple hours," he explained. "That bowling alley in particular because...uh, I thought there would be fewer people there than at other places."

"I know you're not exactly the "people-type", Michael, but—"

"No, no, it's not about me," Mike interjected with a dismissive wave of his hand. "Foxy, well...doesn't really feel too comfortable with humans."

A brief silence. "Oh," said Kim. Furrowing her brows, she swallowed, and glanced down at some invisible object on the floor as a look of embarrassment came to her face. "So how did she...feel...about the dinner, then?"

A ghost of a smile formed on Mike's mouth as he said, "She ended up enjoying it in the end, actually." The smile almost faltered when the image of Foxy's outburst from that night came back to his mind. He forced it to remain, though, and added, "That experience was probably the only reason she even agreed to go out tonight."

"Th-that's good." Kim cleared her throat and smirked, then repeated, "That's good! I'm glad to hear that."

Mike nodded but said nothing, casting a quick glance at the clock across the room. "My ride's gonna be here soon," he noted, more so to himself than anything. His mom heard it though, and raised a brow in confusion.

"Your ride? Why are you not driving there yourself?"

Leaning against the doorframe, Mike slowly released a breath from thin lips. "Yeah, she, uh...she insisted on that," he admitted, grimacing.

His mother opened her mouth to reply, but before she or Mike could add anything more to the conversation, a young voice calling downstairs interrupted them.

"Moooom there's, like, a limo or something in our driveway!" Anne yelled, excitement rippling through her voice.

Mike and Kim simply stared at one another, both coming to a similar conclusion almost instantaneously. Neither vocalized it, but they really didn't need to, anyway. By the time Anne shouted out again, the duo had already started up the flight of stairs. Mike reached the ground level first. Instinctively ruffling his sister's hair as he walked past, he ignored the playful swipes of her hand and checked out through one of the front windows. What Mike saw was just what Anne had described: a shiny, black limousine sat parked in the driveway. Its lights remained on, signaling to Mike that whoever was driving didn't plan to turn the vehicle off or step out.

"Who is it?" asked Anne, curiously peering out the same window.

Mike stepped back from the glass and fretted with his suit one more time. "It's my ride for the night, I guess?" he questioned, rather than simply stating his thoughts. Truth be told, he actually wasn't quite sure of that fact. Who knew? Maybe it could be one of his dad's business associates to drop something off, or—hell, maybe it could even be—

One of the vehicle's back doors flung open, and a figure stepped out onto the driveway. She wore a rose-colored dress that both revealed the shoulders and emphasized her hips and waist, but below that it billowed ever-so-slightly in the breeze.

 _Shit_ , thought Mike, staring out the window at Toy Bonnie. Without looking away, he said to his mom, "Um...so I g-guess it's time for me to go."

Kim, having seen Toy Bonnie herself, glanced over at Mike. She opened her mouth to say something—paused, then sighed and shook her head. "...good luck," she eventually muttered.

With a nod, Mike finally took his eyes away from the window and swallowed. "Thanks."

"Michael, where are you going?" asked Anne, completely unaware of her brother's situation.

"Just uh...," Mike momentarily trailed off as he bent forward slightly to hug Anne. After some consideration, he finished his half-explanation. "Going to dinner."

"With who?"

"A friend," Mike lied.

"A friend? But...that doesn't look like Foxy, though, and...you don't have a lot of friends," noted Anne with a frown.

Sighing, Mike rubbed the back of his neck. "Yeah—I know, I know." As he walked toward the front door, however, he chuckled and added, "But hey, I uh, I might actually have a surprise for you later."

"Ooh!" Anne exclaimed, a smile appearing on her young face again. She threw herself down onto the couch. "What kind of surprise are we talkin'?"

Mike opened the door, allowing a cold air into the house. With a worried glance over his shoulder, he looked across the room at his mom still standing by the window, her face a blank slate, then back at Anne. "A good one," he assured her.

"That's...not very specific, Michael."

"Well," said Mike, "how good of a surprise would it be if I spoiled it?"

The moment he closed the door behind him, any semblance of a smile remaining on the man's face instantly dropped. Mike just barely resisted from messing with his tie again, forcing himself around the brick wall and onto the paved path to the driveway. In an attempt to delay an inevitable encounter with Toy Bonnie, Mike took in his surroundings. The weather wasn't too bad for it being in the middle of winter. Snow still covered the lawn, but with no recent snowfall the roads and driveways of the neighborhood had been cleared for the most part. Up above the sun was just barely visible through a dense curtain of dismal, gray clouds. The longer Mike looked, however, the less he actually saw of it. _Probably gonna snow again sometime tonight_ , he thought, inwardly groaning. _Might make things a little difficult later._

"You usually keep a lady waiting?"

Mike blinked, taken off-guard for a brief moment before he remembered the current circumstances and looked down from the sky. Toy Bonnie still stood by the limousine door, a hand resting expectantly on her hip. A peculiar combination of emotions struck Mike upon realizing how close she actually stood now. To be completely and utterly honest with himself—she didn't look bad at all in that getup. Pretty damn attractive, actually. With that in mind, however, he still wasn't happy to see her.

She noticed him looking at her and flashed Mike a smirk. "You ready?" asked Toy Bonnie, quirking an arched brow.

"A-as ready as I'll ever be," Mike replied after clearing his throat.

Toy Bonnie took Mike's hand in hers and lead him into the back section of the vehicle, the door shutting automatically behind them. Having never been in a limousine before, Mike was immediately shocked by what he saw. Instead of the normal back seat of a car, a long, couch-like seat sat across both the left side wall and the divider. Across from the seat was an expensive looking television, and below that sat a vast selection of fine, boxed wines. The whole thing was brightly lit from above and the sides by a collection of small, LED bulbs. Still trying to take it all in, Mike barely noticed himself get pulled down onto the seat not even a centimeter away from Toy Bonnie.

* * *

"You know...before dinner, Schmidt, I was hoping I would be able to convince you to order some of this place's wine."

A drink tipped up to his face, Mike peered at Toy Bonnie's distorted figure through the curved glass. There wasn't much a need for her to even say such a thing. Hell, Toy Bonnie had even flat-out asked if he was sure about his decision to order water in the first place. _Damn straight I'm sure._ He set it back down on the table next to his plate of sliced bread appetizers and reached for a napkin. "Really?" asked Mike without any actual question in his voice.

"Mmhm," Toy Bonnie hummed. She grinned, taking a sip from the deep red liquid in her own glass. "Best in town. ...to me, anyway."

Mike could only shrug. "Sorry, I've uh...never been much of a drinker."

"I don't blame you at all for that, what with you being the type of person you are, after all."

"What's that supposed to mean?" asked Mike, narrowing his eyes.

"I mean you're an athlete, Mike—I just don't expect you to drink like a damn Irishman everyday," assured Toy Bonnie. "I don't do that myself, you know! I just like to have a little of this stuff every once in awhile."

Mike said nothing, opting to instead take another drink of his water.

"I guess you could say it helps to...loosen me up. Something I think could definitely help you. No offense."

Just then a waiter arrived at Mike and Toy Bonnie's table, pushing in front of him a small cart holding their food. Rolling it to a stop, he removed a plate of sizzling steak and set it down in front of Mike, followed quickly by a couple of smaller plates for his side orders. For Toy Bonnie, he set down a bowl of some kind of soup. With the food situation taken care of, the waiter retreated back behind the cart with a respectful bow and started his journey back to the kitchen. Mike followed him with his eyes until the man disappeared from sight, then glanced down at the main plate in front of him with a smile.

It looked amazing. Fork and knife in hand, Mike wasted no time in cutting himself a piece and taking a bite. "Well, I think you yourself would be at least a little stressed in my situation right now," he eventually said after some eating.

"Now, what do _you_ mean by _that_?"

Mike simply stared at her.

"A bet's a bet, you know," stated Toy Bonnie with a giggle. She didn't take her eyes off him for a second as she brought a spoonful of the soup to her mouth. Pursing her lips, she slowly, _slowly_ blew on it to cool it down, then swallowed it.

Mike cleared his throat and looked out the window to avoid her unwavering gaze. "Yes, I uh—I know that," he stated, "but it's not what I meant."

"Well, what did you mean then, Mr. Schmidt?"

Taking a moment to choose his words, Mike held up a couple fingers. "Two things. The first is that, well, to be frank I'm not exactly used to being in a place like this. The limousine, the five-star restaurant, the fine wine, the classical music, and this damn dress suit."—he motioned down his body—"All of this. This just, uh...this just isn't my thing. I'm a simple boxer, not a businessman," he explained. As soon as the last word left his mouth, he instantly took another bite of his food.

"Really?" asked Toy Bonnie, her eyes widening as she sat back in her chair. "Shit—color me surprised, then. I would've expected the future head of a prominent electronics company to be used to luxuries like this."

"Yeah well, my parents didn't want to raise me or my sister into being spoiled brats," replied Mike with a shrug. "And believe me, I have no interest at all in pursuing business like my dad."

Toy Bonnie leaned in, interested. "Why not?"

"I just don't."

"Don't play me—I know there's gotta be a specific reason, Schmidt."

The frown already on Mike's face deepened as she pried further. He huffed and said, "Nothing, it's just that I prefer being a boxer is all."

"I can definitely understand that..." Toy Bonnie trailed off, taking a second to eat another spoonful of soup. Then, with an impressed whistle, she added, "But hey, if it makes you feel any better, though, you do look pretty damn hot in the tux."

The compliment made Mike's face flush a deep red, similar in complexion to Toy Bonnie's wine.

Still giggling at his flustered reaction, Toy Bonnie eventually continued. "Anyway, you mentioned that there were two things. What's the second?"

"It's that...well, it's..." Mike once again found himself staring out the window. He couldn't bear to look across the table at the rabbit, lest he risk losing his temper again. His appetite was suddenly gone. "To be blunt, it's you. More specifically, since I failed, my career is pretty much done with at this point," explained Mike, some invisible thing in the night sky seeming to capture his eyes. "I'm not sure of where exactly to go from here. ...what to do now."

For the first time during their dinner, Toy Bonnie's smile disappeared from her face, replaced by a shadow of a look of guilt. "No hard feelings. I was just doing my job, ya' know."

"I know that," said Mike.

Toy Bonnie said nothing for a minute, taking a deep drink of her wine. Within seconds the glass was empty aside from a ring of red at the bottom. She set it back down. "Just like it was Toy Chica's job to stop you in the first place," Toy Bonnie added.

"...except with her, I had another chance at it after my first loss." He moved to retrieve his fork again but quickly found it pointless when he noticed that, much to his disappointment, his steak was already gone.

"Schmidt."

"What?"

"Why don't you just re-challenge me, then?"

Mike at first blinked in surprise at the suggestion, but after a moment of thought he shook his head. "I would if I could," he answered, "but those that fought you before me made it pretty damn clear that it wasn't an option."

With a dismissive wave of her hand, Toy Bonnie said, "Shit, they _had_ the option, alright..."

"Really?" asked Mike.

"Of course. Simply put, none of them had the balls—er, guts, to try again. Most don't."

Not really believing her, Mike opened his mouth to argue but found himself completely interrupted by their waiter returning to the table. The middle-aged man gave the two a slight bow and asked if they were ready for tonight's dessert yet. "Sure thing!" answered Toy Bonnie before Mike could fit even a word in. An additional menu was handed to her by the waiter. As she looked over said menu for whatever might please her, Mike reconsidered Toy Bonnie's words in his head.

 _She's probably lying, but...what if she isn't? If I could fight Toy Bonnie again, maybe...maybe things aren't so bad. Not yet_ , he thought, an inner excitement almost granting him a smile at the thought. Suddenly nervous, Mike quelled the excitement to the best of his abilities and furrowed his brow suspiciously at Toy Bonnie. _That's if she's telling the truth._

"If it's okay, we'll be sharing one of the large hot fudge sundaes," he heard Toy Bonnie say. A second or two later Mike realized she hadn't been speaking to him, but to the waiter.

"Certainly," responded the waiter. With a somewhat understanding smile, he took the menu from Toy Bonnie's out held hand. After another bow, the man turned and strode away to serve another couple at a nearby table.

"So tell me something," Toy Bonnie said, breaking a brief silence that had come over their table. While Mike had barely noticed it while it was there, he suddenly longed for its return once it disappeared. He said nothing, but raised a brow to signal that he was listening. Toy Bonnie went on. "How on earth did you get Foxy of all people to train you? I mean, shit, most people weren't even sure she was still alive! Nobody had seen her for like thirty or so years—where did you even find her?"

"I don't really know," answered Mike, truthfully. He shrugged and said, "She just approached me after my first fight with Toy Chica."

"Really? Damn...did you even know who she was at the time?"

"Not...really, no. I just knew her name because I'd seen pictures of her in some of my mom's stuff. Didn't even know Foxy was a boxer when she offered to help." Toy Bonnie was leaning almost halfway across the table at this point, her long ears occasionally twitching as she listened intently to every word Mike spoke, like any thought missed would be physically torn from existence. "She just offered to help me beat the crap out of your friend, and after a fight like that"—his jaws clenched, fist tightening around the edge of the table—"I figured I had nothing to lose," stated Mike with a bitter smile.

After Mike finished his explanation, Toy Bonnie stewed over the man's words in her head before eventually nodding—more so to herself than to him, as if affirming her own thoughts on the matter. "I guess I don't blame you for taking up her offer, but...but why you of all people?"

"What's that supposed to mean—"

"No offense meant at all, Schmidt, don't get me wrong," assured Toy Bonnie. She gave him a quick wink before her face returned to its prior seriousness. "But do you have any idea how many damn people fight in the Freddy Circuit every week? How many potential superstars Foxy passed over before you came along?"

"A lot." It was all Mike could say.

"So what makes _you_ so special?"

Mike felt a shiver run down his spine from the pressure of Toy Bonnie's gaze when she asked that. "I-I think you're asking the wrong person that question, honestly."

"Maybe." Toy Bonnie paused, took a sip of her newly replenished glass of wine, then smirked at him.


	23. Short Drive, and Some Weird Shoes

The moment Foxy heard Toy Bonnie open the lobby doors—having finally arrived back at the arena after dinner that night—she felt an overwhelmingly intense urge to interrogate her on what happened over the past few hours. She resisted the temptation, however, and waited for the rabbit to pass by her and disappear down the hallway before she came out from her hiding spot behind the main desk. Unsurprisingly, Foxy heard little sound throughout the rest of the arena as she walked over to the front doors. Workers tended to finish all their Monday cleaning duties shortly after nine o'clock, and with it nearing ten at this point most of them were gone for the night. That just left Foxy alone in the dimly-lit, yet comfortably quiet lobby.

 _Still can't believe he had to actually go through with going to dinner with that broad,_ Foxy thought. She frowned, ducking her head in near disgust. _Means we'll have Toy Chica up our asses when we train here again, too..._

Through the window, a car materialized from behind a thicket of trees in the distance. Foxy's eyes intently followed its path. Unfortunately, said path ignored the turn into the FBF's lot, and the car drove straight on until it disappeared again behind some trees. Foxy sighed, her ears drooping. "She better not have tried anything on him."

A couple more vehicles passed by in the night before the specific one Foxy anticipated finally reared its ugly mug, or 'hood' to be more specific. Foxy failed to understand why, with how good of a house his family lived in, Mike insisted on keeping that scrapheap.

She saw him turn to enter the parking lot. As the car approached closer and closer to the FBF Grand's front entrance, Foxy's heart beat faster and faster like a drum in her chest. She swallowed, and brought her shaking hand up to the doorknob. Mike parked in his usual spot next to the pavement. By the time he had just barely gotten the door open to wave her over, Foxy had already run out from the warm embrace of the lobby's heating system into the night's falling snow. She reached the passenger door in just a few seconds. Foxy flung the door open, nearly tearing it off its hinges, then threw herself in to the seat.

"Ready?" asked Mike from her left, pulling his door closed again.

Arms wrapped around herself to try and regain some of her lost heat, Foxy responded only with a shivery nod. When the vehicle didn't move immediately after that, she looked around to see if there was anything awry, but found nothing out of the norm aside from Mike messing with a couple knobs on the car's dashboard. Pretty soon though she heard a soft 'click', and a breath of warm air coughed out from a couple of small, circular vents in front of her. ...then it died not even a second later.

Mike groaned. "Son of a..." Annoyed, he turned a knob to the left, slammed a hand down on top of the dashboard, then readjusted that same knob until the stream of heat sputtered back to life. It stayed active this time, thankfully. Finally feeling the full effect of the heating system, Foxy let out a soft moan of contentment as her body began recovering from the brief stint in the cold. "Fuckin' hell that feels good..." she muttered in a sigh.

With a quiet laugh to himself, Mike pulled the car out of the parking lot, and turned down the road to start them on their way to the bowling alley. For a while their drive was a surprisingly quiet one. Mike found himself busy with keeping his eye on the road ahead, making sure to drive somewhat carefully now that snow, and subsequently ice, had started collecting on the road again. On the other hand, Foxy found herself busy with her own thoughts. Since she no longer had the cold to distract her from her own thoughts, the nervousness she felt back in the lobby started piling itself up again like a chunk of the frigid arctic in her chest.

A bowling alley was a whole new experience to her. Public places of _any_ kindwere new experiences to Foxy. Even after psyching herself up for hours before the present—now that she was actually in a vehicle speeding along toward one such public place, Foxy was beginning to feel in some awful, claustrophobic way that she just wouldn't be able to handle it. She _couldn't._ If eating dinner with Mike's family was one monster, then going out to where there could potentially be tens of humans at a single time was some ungodly monster that ate the first one like the cherry on a sundae. How much it dwarfed the former in its sheer horror couldn't even be misconstrued as laughable.

Foxy swallowed, her shivering unrelated to any remaining coldness. She turned to look out the window at the buildings and trees flying passed them as the car continued forward.

"You doing okay?" Mike asked, as if he had somehow sensed her unease.

Taken off guard by the sudden question, Foxy blinked in surprise and looked over at Mike. A couple seconds passed before the actual question of it registered in her mind. "I'm f-fine, slugger," she answered, whirling around to face the window again. The stutter wasn't lost on Mike, and Foxy knew it. "Though...a little... _nervous_ , I guess."

"A little?" Mike repeated with no real questioning tone to his voice. He smiled at her out of the corner of his eye.

A short burst of laughter left Foxy's maw in spite of herself. "Fuck off!" she exclaimed, snickering as she shoved Mike's shoulder.

"Careful," he warned, "don't hit the driver." Mike patted the wheel to emphasize his point.

Foxy rolled her eyes in response but easily conceded to his point, reeling her arm back toward herself. She crossed her arms in front of her chest. Sighing, she admitted, "Fine, I'm really nervous. Tell me something—can ya' really _blame_ me for that, Mike?"

"No."

"And talk about nervous," she continued, "you don't exactly look like the fuckin' epitome of confidence yourself right now, ya' know." Foxy pointed an accusing finger at him.

"What do you mean?" asked Mike.

Foxy suddenly smirked. "You're shakin' just as much as me."

It wasn't completely true. While Mike's body shivered, it was to such a minor degree that it could at least be _seen_ as a response to the cold. She must've been correct to _some_ degree with her accusation though, because Mike sat silent a beat before saying: "It's just the cold."

The animatronic let out an amused snort.

"Seriously!" Mike exclaimed.

Turning in her seat to face him, Foxy saw that his knuckles were white on the wheel. She quirked a brow. "...riiiiight."

Realizing it was pointless to try and lie any further, Mike sighed. He sat in quiet for a second or two, rhythmically loosening and tightening his grip on the wheel as he silently gathered his thoughts. Hesitantly, Mike said, "It's more excitement than nervousness, I guess."

Foxy continued to look at Mike, expecting him to expand on his somewhat vague answer.

"Well, I mean I'm sort of nervous about taking you out because I've...never really done anything like _this_ before..." he continued, momentarily motioning with a hand before he replaced it on the wheel. Mike's face suddenly flushed a bright pink. Clearing his throat, he explained, "Going out with a friend, I mean. So you could say I'm a little new to this."

A deep red tone coming to her already crimson fur-covered face, Foxy admitted, "Make that the two of us, then."

Neither of the two knowing what more to say about that, the car settled back into a comfortable silence. Very briefly, Foxy considered asking Mike to turn the radio on to combat the quiet. She decided against it though, and straightened in her chair. Looking ahead, she distracted herself by watching the snow repeatedly land on the windshield, only to quickly melt or be reduced to simple watery streaks by the wipers.

Clearing his throat to break the silence, Mike quietly hummed to himself. "Despite all of that," he said, "I find myself looking forward to tonight. Think we'll have fun."

Foxy shook her head and replied, "I'm gonna suck so bad. Ya' know that, right?"

"For sure—"

" _Thanks_ , slugger," she interjected.

"—so will I, though!" Mike exclaimed, "That'll be the fun part of it. You'll get the gist of it before you know it, and I'll be back to my old skill level pretty quickly."

"You any good at this?"

Mike furrowed his brow, turning the car around a corner. "Used to be okay—haven't bowled in years though, so I'm rusty."

Foxy absent-mindedly nodded, glancing down at the hook that sat unmoving in her lap. Suddenly, two questions came to mind. Not taking her eyes off of the appendage, she stated, "I'm curious about a couple things."

"Go for it."

"First, does bowling need me to use two hands?"

Coming to a red light, Mike slowed the car for a couple seconds before it came to a sliding stop. He took the moment to briefly turn and look at Foxy, giving her his usual awkward, lopsided smile. "You won't," he assured her. "It might be a bit...er, weird at first, but it shouldn't be too bad."

Foxy returned the smile, enjoying the fact that it wasn't too rare a sight from him nowadays. "That's a relief. I'm pretty sure you would've reconsidered tonight's plans if that was case, but—well, I figured I might as well ask anyway."

"No worries," Mike said, "now what was the second thing?"

"Why'd ya' stop bowling , if you don't mind me askin'?"

As soon as the words left Foxy's mouth, though, the smile disappeared from his face. "Well, I..." Mike trailed off as he looked back to the road. Foxy saw his eyes widen slightly. "I'll tell you later." He pointed ahead.

Following his finger's direction, she easily spotted a glowing, neon sign off in the distance. " 'Luxury Lanes'..." Foxy read, " 'Greatest family-owned bowling spot in all of the Big Apple.' "

"That apparently used to say ' _Grooviest_ family-owned bowling spot' back in the day," Mike noted, grinning.

Foxy bent forward in her seat, snickering. Arms clutched tightly around her chest, she asked, "No shit?"

"Seriously."

Compared to the likes of the FBF Grand, the building wasn't that big—length-wise it was akin to that of a football field, and it looked to only have a ground floor. Its walls were made of a kind of brick that looked gray in the snowy atmosphere, though Foxy knew they were probably red in direct sunlight. She saw lights similar in intensity to the building's sign streaming out the few windows and especially through the glass of the front double doors. What got Foxy's attention the most, however, wasn't the building itself. It was the parking lot.

"Only three other cars...?" Foxy mumbled, staring out the window in awe. She held a hand up to try and shield her eyes from some of the building's brightness.

"Why do you think I chose this place?" asked Mike. He scanned the lot for any spots of asphalt _not_ completely caked in any of the rapidly shifting snow, then parked the car. Mike turned to face her. "I promised I wouldn't take you anywhere you'd be swamped with people."

Returning his gaze, Foxy looked at him speechlessly for a moment before sighing. She lowered her head and let out a quiet laugh. "Thank ya' for that."

Mike shrugged, opening the car door and stepping out into the chilliness. As soon as his foot touched the ground though, it slipped, causing him to have to reach and take hold of the door to not fall flat on his ass. The vehicle lurched with his suddenly shifting weight, alerting Foxy. She gasped and reached for the doorhandle. "Shit, you okay?!"

"I'm fine!" he called over the billowing wind. "Just...ugh... _watch_ for the _ice_. Slippery as hell _._ "

Foxy breathed a sigh of relief. Upon opening the door just a crack, however, she sucked that breath back up with an instinctive gasp in response to the frigidness. Foxy gritted her teeth and—after a solid five seconds of mental debate on whether or not to just stay in the car, lock the doors and turn the heaters to max—she reluctantly walked out into the snowstorm.

Quickly, the two matched paces in their careful jog to the front doors. "Shit, shit, _shit, shit, SHIT_..." Foxy mumbled, each repeated profanity leaving her maw in a wisp of fog. "I-is it— _is it g-gettin' WORSE?!_ "

"Hopefully not," Mike said just as a particularly bitter cold wind struck. He clenched his hands into fists and pulled his coat closer to him, slowly looking up and around them as they moved. "I still have to drive some more tonight..."

The front doors opened up into a thin corridor, each wall lined with a number of different vending machines and a couple of old arcade games. Past that, however, it opened up on both sides to the main bowling area, where nearly thirty lanes covered the back end of the room wall-to-wall. Thankfully for Foxy only a couple of the lanes were actually being used at the moment. Still, the sight of those three to four people bowling on one end of the room gave Foxy chills running up and down her back. She pulled her hood up over her head and set her hand and hook inside their respective pockets. At least the bowling alley was heated.

Foxy and Mike walked around the corner and as they approached the service desk, the heavyset, bleached blonde-haired man working behind the desk seemed to recognize Mike and let out a loud gasp. " _Jiminy Christmas!_ " he exclaimed, wrinkles on his forehead and at the edges of his mouth betraying the youthful vibe given off by his hair. The man stepped closer and set his hands on top of the desk. "Is that you, Vick?"

Taken aback, Foxy glanced over at Mike—who looked just as confused as she probably did. He quickly recovered after a moment though, a genuine grin replacing his puzzlement. "Jeez, Jeremy," he said, "it's Michael."

The man—apparently named Jeremy—opened his mouth to speak whatever thoughts he had prepared to say, but Mike's words must've finally registered in his mind, because his jaw simply hung open like that for a couple seconds before slowly shutting. Rapidly blinking, Jeremy leaned forward over the desk slightly, scanning Mike's face with his brows furrowed in concentration. Then he slunk back, a look of pure shock written all over his face.

"Holy...are you _actually_ little _Michael Schmidt_?" Jeremy asked, his voice soft enough to just _barely_ be heard over the rock music quietly playing in the background.

Mike nodded, scratching the back of his neck in what Foxy could see was embarrassment. He offered his hand.

Letting out a low whistle, Jeremy warmly accepted the gesture. "Heh, I'm sorry for the confusion, Michael!" he exclaimed, pulling back from the handshake to get a good look at him. "Guess you can't really blame me though...I mean, look at you"—he motioned toward the young man with both hands—"a real chip off the old block."

"I've been told that a lot, actually. And you can call me Mike."

"No kidding!" he said, laughing. "And I gotcha. You know, I was just about to ask why you were with a different girl than the one you're married to, but well...thankfully that isn't the case! Speaking of which..." Foxy froze when Jeremy turned to her, his eyes slightly squinted. "I'm sorry if you're told this a lot, ma'am, but man—you _really_ look a lot like that old boxer, Foxy the Pirate. Ya' ever heard of her?"

Mike cleared his throat. "Jeremy."

Said man looked back at him for an instant, quirked a brow, then returned his attention to Foxy.

Foxy's own throat felt as dry as a rock, but she forced herself to speak. "I—I _am_ Foxy," she stuttered, suddenly wanting to run back to the car.

"Really?" he asked, eyebrows shooting up. "Wow...I—I've been hearing a lot about Mike over here on the television and radio recently, but it's definitely been a long minute since I've heard _anything_ about you." He glanced back and forth between the two of them. "So am I to assume you're the one who's been training him, then?"

Choosing not to verbally answer, Foxy hesitated a moment before just simply nodding.

"Nice! So how long have you two been seeing each other, then?"

Mike interjected, "It's _not_ like that, Jeremy."

"We're just friends," Foxy added from the side.

A pause. Then—Jeremy let out a low guffaw, the sheer intensity of it forcing him to clutch his gut. This went on until he eventually calmed down and wiped a tear of mirth from his eye. He smirked at the two of them. "Ahhh, okay, okay. I gotcha—now worries," he stated, clearing not believing either of them for a second. "I gotcha. Anyway, I'm assuming you two didn't come here to socialize with me: what will it be for the night?"

"One lane for the two of us," replied Mike. He paused, then asked, "It's nearing ten, right?"

After checking his watch, Jeremy nodded.

"Two hours, then. We'll be going until midnight."

"Great!" Jeremy said. He tapped a few commands into a nearby computer and asked, "You guys bring your own shoes? Or will ya' be borrowing some for the night?"

Foxy tilted her head in confusion at the question. _What the hell does THAT mean?_ She looked over at Mike.

Once Mike told the man that the two of them were indeed borrowing for the night, Jeremy then proceeded to ask for their shoe-sizes. Mike answered immediately that he wore size thirteens, the number being memorized since he hadn't grown much at all in several years. For a moment, Jeremy retreated into a backroom. He came back out with a pair of bland brown and tan bowling shoes for Mike, plopped them down on the desk in front of him, then turned to Foxy and asked what size shoes she wore.

"Uh..." Her voice trailed off as she peered down at the old, worn-out sneakers on her feet. Foxy felt both their gazes on her. With shaking hands, she slipped one off and inspected it. She had already scanned all of the exterior of the shoe for any numerical indicator of its size when Mike tapped her side to get her attention.

"Check the inside of the heel," he whispered just loud enough for her, and _her_ alone to hear it. Wordlessly nodding, Foxy mouthed a silent 'thanks' and she did as she was told. A nearly-faded tag lined the back of the shoe, from which she could just barely read the number "12".

"Twelves?" Jeremy asked with a frown. He scratched some stubble on his chin, then held a hand out toward Foxy. "Could I see that for a second?"

Staring down at the shoe, Foxy hesitated a moment before handing it over to him. Jeremy cringed slightly at the state of the shoe but said nothing about it, instead double-checking the tag for himself. "Oh!" he exclaimed upon reading a specific label on it. With a chuckle, he passed Foxy's shoe back to her and headed once more into the backroom.

"I wonder what the hell _that_ was about..." Foxy muttered.

Mike turned to her and shrugged. "No idea."

Almost three times the period of seconds Jeremy was in the room on the first occasion passed before he eventually walked back out with a pair of tacky neon-green bowling shoes in hand. He set them next to Mike's shoes on the desk. After he typed a little more on the service computer, Jeremy rubbed the back of his neck and explained, "Really sorry for the delay, guys. I'm not used to converting men's sizes to women's sizes..."

"What do ya' mean by _men's_ and _women's_ shoes?" asked Foxy, not completely understanding the difference between the two.

Jeremy blinked. "Men and women have to wear slightly different shoes due to...well, a few things, I guess. I'm not sure of the exact science behind it all, but it's because of these that they have different sizing for the two kinds of shoes."

"So you were wearing a men's size twelves, then?" Mike asked Foxy. He took both of their pairs of bowling shoes off the desk, holding the green ones out toward her.

"I...guess?" she replied as she tentatively accepted the offered pair in one hand. Her hook hadn't left its pocket during their whole exchange.

"Eh! It's nothing to worry about. We all have weird feet in some way..." Jeremy interjected with a wide smile. He shooed the two away with a wave of his hands. "Anyway, I hope you two have fun tonight. Go crazy!"

"Thanks," Mike and Foxy almost simultaneously replied.


	24. A Little Bit of Bowling

"Seriously, Mike? Sixteen pounds is the best you've got?"

After their little discussion with Mike's old friend, Jeremy, the two friends had wasted no time in choosing their lane, which ended up being on the side of the bowling alley opposite of the few other bowlers. This arrangement did wonders to calm down Foxy's nerves, but she found she still couldn't completely relax with the knowledge that those other people could just walk over at any minute. That would have to suffice though, unfortunately.

At the moment, Mike and Foxy stood over by the house-ball rack only a couple meters back from their table, with Mike holding up a scratched, ash-colored ball. He sighed, and lowered it back next to its brethren. "It's the limit," Mike said, turning to face her for a second. "And trust me, Foxy, there's no need to go much higher anyway. You might mess something up—the machinery, the floor, or even your arm if you try." With that, he bent back down to grab another ball.

"I—whatever, I guess," relented Foxy, throwing up her hand and hook. It was pointless to try and argue over something she knew jack shit about. After she watched Mike try three different, yet identical bowling balls to no avail though, Foxy put her hand to her hip and asked, "You _said_ that each color indicates a certain weight, though...right?"

"Yeah?" Mike replied without looking up.

"Then why do ya' keep grabbing the same damn color?"

Picking up another ball, he turned toward Foxy. "Because," he said, wiggling the fingers of his left hand, "a lot of these either have holes too small for my fingers, or they're spaced weirdly."

"Oh." Foxy blinked. Considering that, she then leaned in closer to watch as Mike tested this one for comfort. She noted how he used his middle and index fingers to grip the bowling ball. That just left the other ones to rest on the exterior. Honestly, Foxy still wasn't exactly sure what Mike had meant, but judging by the satisfied breath of air that he released, this one must have been a winner. Further proving her theory, Mike stood up with it still held in hand and walked it over to what looked to Foxy like a cannon with a metal tongue sticking out, streaked by red and gold plastic on its side and supported by a short pole in the ground. He set it on the end closest to them, then walked back toward Foxy.

"Okay, now let's get yours."

"Way ahead of ya'," Foxy said, immediately picking up one of the gray balls. Awkwardly, she attempted to follow Mike's lead, holding her hook horizontally to support the ball so she could test her grip. Foxy smirked. Even with her inexperience, she could tell this one fit like a glove. "First one's a charm, eh?"

After she strode over to set her ball down next to Mike's, Foxy returned to the table to find Mike exchanging his shoes for the awful looking bowling ones. She took the seat across from him, the uncomfortable chair squeaking slightly as it settled under her weight. Her eyes fell upon the neon green shoes sitting on the table in front of her. Then, slowly, they drifted down to her sneakers. Shrugging, Foxy slipped them off of her feet and slid the green ones on, managing to tie them with little issue using both her hand and hook. Having been watching at the time, Mike let out a low, impressed whistle just loud enough for her to hear. The vixen jumped slightly in place, then turned the swiveling chair to look at him.

"That was actually...well, impressive," Mike noted with a finger pointed at her shoes.

It took Foxy a moment before she realized what exactly Mike had meant by that, the crimson of her face darkening. She briefly lowered her eyes to the table, before raising them back up to meet the man's gaze with a grin. "Thank ya'."

"Don't mention it," he said. He pressed a couple buttons on a nearby screen and keyboard, then added, "I can only imagine how long it must've taken to get that down."

Foxy snorted. "Oh, like ya' wouldn't _believe_! Seriously, it took years of trying over and over until I could do it without accidentally stabbing myself in the foot."

"I can imagine."

"No kidding!" exclaimed Foxy, just barely suppressing her laughter. "At one point I even considered rippin' the laces out of them and just _tapin'_ the damn things."

Covering his mouth with a hand, Mike grinned, asking, "Why tape? You do know that'd just end up wasting a lot of tape, and it'd overall be a pain in the ass, don't you?"

"Well _duh,_ Mike, why do ya' think I put up with that shit for as long as I did?" asked Foxy.

Only able to react with a shrug, Mike listened for a second to the classic rock song quietly playing through the speakers before saying, "Good point. Still though, it's pretty cool that you learned how to do that just to make up for a missing hand."

"Yeah," she replied, a further response eluding her at the moment as she subconsciously lifted her hook up to look at it. Often did she take the time to simply look at the thing, but it was a rare occasion for her to look at it without disdain. Generally, she tried to ignore it, pretending as if it wasn't even there. And when the moments came that she couldn't just completely disregard the reality of her life, she often hated that it existed at all, the mere sight of it bringing her to a teeth-clenching anger. Right now, however, her expression was neutral.

Mike watched silently. He extended a hand toward her, then, thinking better of the decision, he pulled it back slightly.

Having spotted the movement out of the corner of her eye, Foxy immediately turned her attention to Mike. Then she saw his outstretched hand.

"May I?" he asked.

Breathlessly, Foxy looked down at the hand, glanced at her hook, then back up at his face. Her transfixed gaze came to a lasting halt on the appendage. Fur standing up on end as if by static, Foxy barely even registered when she gave him the go-ahead.

As if it was a snail trudging through molasses, Mike's hand crept centimeter-by-centimeter closer to Foxy's hook. Eventually, his index and middle finger came in contact first. He expected the metal to be cold and was surprised with how warm it actually was to the touch, even so much that he nearly flinched. Regardless, Mike kept his fingers in place, and after a few seconds of letting them just sit there, he also brought his thumb onto the hook. He gently felt the smooth titanium beneath his grip, not saying a word as he went on.

Foxy felt her heart beat like a machine-gun within her chest, watching the man with shaky breaths. Her hand lay clenched in a tight fist on her lap. At first, it took an enormous amount of sheer willpower for her to not simply bat his hand away—sure, she couldn't exactly _feel_ it on her hook, due to a lack of nerves there—but seeing it had the same effect on Foxy. _It's ugly_ , she told herself, _I should just be hiding it away like I always do_. But something within Foxy convinced her to keep still.

Across the table, she was shocked to find that Mike's face showed no disgust whatsoever toward the object held in his hand. He instead looked at it with a curious interest.

"Jesus..." Mike mumbled, tapping its sharp point with his finger. "You've kept this thing in great shape."

"Th-thanks—"

From somewhere behind her, Foxy picked up the sound of approaching footsteps. She yanked her hook away from Mike and quickly set it back down on her lap—right on time, too, because just then a woman approached them. Foxy swallowed, instinctively lowering her head before noticing that the lady seemed to be wearing a uniform of sorts. Her black button-up shirt was adorned with a tag. Along with stating her name, Kathy, the tag also had the name of the bowling alley on it. _An employee, then?_

"Hey! Is there anything I can get for you two tonight? Drinks, nachos, hotdogs...?"

"A pitcher of water, please," replied Mike. He slid a laminated piece of paper across the table to Foxy. "You interested in anything?"

Blinking, Foxy oriented the menu so she could read it. With there being only one side to the sheet, it didn't take her too long to scan through all the items. Not that she needed the time anyway, for Foxy found what she wanted among the first four options. Just the sound of it made her mouth water.

The waitress wrote the order down after having Foxy repeat it a couple times, then looked back at the two of them with a friendly smile. She declared, "Alright! I'll be back with your things in just a few minutes."

As she left, Mike stared at Foxy with raised eyebrows and a grin. " _Wings_?" he asked, baffled. Seeing Foxy simply nod at the question, he whistled lowly. "And flaming-hot nonetheless! You're crazy, fox."

"What can I say, slugger?" Foxy shrugged. "They sounded pretty damn good. Crazy as ya' might think it, I like my food _hot."_

"I sure hope you plan on eating all of those yourself, then, because I'm not even a little hungry."

"Psh...you say that as if I woulda shared with ya' anyway!" she shot back with a smirk.

Rolling his eyes, Mike briefly returned the smile and got to his feet. "Yeah, yeah. Anyway, you want to get started while we wait?"

The mirth on Foxy's face lessened a few degrees at that, but she nodded anyway. "Might as well," said the vixen, swallowing her growing anxiousness.

"Okay," Mike started, "I already have the scoreboard set up, so I'll just start us off. What I want _you_ to do is to closely watch how I do it. I might, you know, _suck_ at first, but you'll at least get the very basics of how to bowl from watching. Got it?" Once Foxy responded with a thumbs up, Mike turned and went over to the ball return. He picked up the one he knew was his ball, setting his fingers in the right places. Then, with the ball held up in front of him, he took slow, calculated steps toward the pins, swung back and then threw it. Seven pins fell to the floor.

"Jeez," Mike muttered with a frown. "Knew I was rusty, but that's rough."

Still seated at the table, Foxy intently watched as the remaining white pins were picked up by the mechanism, allowing the felled ones to be swept into the back. Through her numerous adventures into the vast world of literature, she had already long picked up the rules of bowling—try to knock the ten pins down with the ball, what 'splits', 'spares', and 'strikes' mean, don't throw like it's football, etc. What she _didn't_ understand was how to actually go about playing the game. Because of this, Foxy made sure to closely study Mike's movements in both his steps and in the way he threw it.

Another throw from Mike knocked the rest of the pins down. _A spare,_ Foxy thought. She glanced up at the scoreboard onscreen to confirm it, and watched as a short cinematic played. Below the screen, Mike walked back toward the table.

"I hope you weren't looking at that thing the whole time I was up there." He sat down across from her, smiling.

"Nope," Foxy replied, slowly getting to her feet. "Don't worry, I watched ya'." Even then, she still felt unsure of how well she would do, and unfortunately for her the time had come to put that to the test. After mistakingly picking up Mike's bowling ball at first, Foxy swapped for hers, took a deep breath to steady her rampant nerves, then walked up to the lane. Awkwardly, she mimicked the way he held the ball up in front of him, though she decided to keep her hook by her side. Since her legs were longer in comparison, Foxy's steps toward the foul line felt clumsy. She swung her arm back, just barely managing to hold on to the ball as it threatened to escape her grasp, then threw it. ...right into the gutter.

Foxy frowned. Fist clenched, she no longer heard the music playing in the background. There existed only two things in her world at the moment—her, and the collective pins. That world wasn't big enough for both of them, and now Foxy's number one goal was to restore balance and get rid of the excess. Her weapon returned to her seconds later. Quickly, she took aim, went through the motions and threw with a monstrous vigor. Four casualties. Foxy rolled her jaw in consideration for a moment, then shrugged and walked back to the table as the pins reset.

"Not bad," Mike encouraged. "You'll get better quickly enough." No response came from her. It took Mike sliding her tray of wings over in front of her to finally break Foxy from her stupor.

"Yup," hummed Foxy absent-mindedly, licking her lips at the sight of the food. She aggressively got to work tearing the meat from one of the bones.

Smiling, Mike shook his head with an amused quirk of the brow and poured himself a glass of water. "Hungry?"

"Mhmm." Foxy nodded, swallowing her current mouthful. Foxy picked up another wing, brought it up to her maw, then she paused. "Are ya' _sure_ you don't want one?" she asked, her head slightly tilted.

"Positive. Spicy stuff just kills me." He took a sip of water.

Something about that startled Foxy enough to put her chicken back down into the tray. " _Kills_ you?" she asked, concern showing in her golden eyes. "What, are ya' like, deathly allergic or somethin'?"

The water in Mike's mouth nearly ended up on Foxy's face. He hurriedly downed the drink before simultaneously coughing and laughing, which weren't a great combination of actions. Recovering after a second or two, Mike grinned at the realization he would have to clear it up. "No, no," he began, "it's just an exaggeration. I meant spicy food just hurts my stomach a lot."

"Gotcha. That's understandable, then."

"Yep," Mike said, standing up in the process. "Though I might order some nachos if I get hungry later."

He went on to bowl his next couple of turns and ended up only hitting six of the pins, and then nine—beginning what would be a very inconsistent game for him. After he was finished, Foxy walked up to prepare for her next shot. Since she ended up falling back into that trance-like state from before, she didn't notice Mike walk up behind her until she just about nailed him in the groin with her bowling ball.

"Shit, I'm sorry!" shouted Foxy. She spun around and faced him, her hook held against her chest to try to calm her hurried breathing. "Why'd ya' have to sneak up on me like that?" she asked.

"I tried warning you," Mike explained, "but I guess you were too in the game to notice."

Instinctively, Foxy opened her maw to argue against that. Then she froze in realization. After a moment, she weakly laughed and averted her gaze. "Heh, uh...my bad. What are ya' doing up here anyway, slugger?"

Instead of immediately responding to her question, Mike jerked a thumb up at the scoreboard. "I know you're just starting, but I see a few things about your throw that could use some work. Mind if I help?"

"Go ahead."

Mike waved her to the side for a moment, then demonstrated the stepping-and-throwing motion at half speed. He did this with no ball in hand, so that he could repeat himself a couple times without the chance of accidentally releasing it. A glance over at Foxy showed him that she was indeed watching, her eyes focused. After a few more pretend throws, Mike stopped and turned to Foxy. "See? Now you try," he told her, " _slowly_ , and make sure you _don't_ throw the ball."

This time, it was Mike that stood to the side as Foxy practiced her bowling throw. He noticed in the back of his mind that the song playing in the building had just changed to something of a completely different genre, though he made no note of it at the time. At Mike's encouragement, Foxy tried another time. Mike frowned. She kept on making the same mistake, but he wasn't exactly sure if just explaining it would suffice. As awkward as it might end up being, physically _helping_ her seemed like it might be the most effective option. Mike swallowed what felt like a pinecone of nervousness and stammered out, "You're—well, you're close. Here, let me, uh...try something a little weird, if you don't mind."

"What do ya' mean by 'weird' _,_ Mike?" Foxy asked, blinking.

Blowing out a breath of air, Mike stated, "You'll see. Just...stand like you're just about to throw, except you won't be taking any steps this time."

Her brow still raised, Foxy hesitated a beat before silently nodding and getting into position. The first thing she noticed was Mike's arm come around from her left side to join her hand on the bowling ball, which already caught her off guard. The second thing she noticed was the man's close-proximity. Foxy bit her lip at the realization, but surprising even herself—she didn't flinch the slightest bit. Something that helped keep her calm is that she felt Mike's hand shaking on hers.

"A-alright," Mike's voice came from behind and to her left, "the main thing I wanted to change was where you had your hook. I understand why—you know—y-you might have thought you shouldn't use it, but I think you'll actually improve if you do."

His hand, which had been hovering by her waist until then, gently gripped her right wrist and lifted it to the ball, angling her hook so its shank was held divergent with the surface. If Foxy's mind wasn't currently the equivalent of scrambled eggs, the vixen may have noticed that this helped keep the ball steady before her swing.

"See?" asked Mike.

Foxy hummed an affirmation, her cheeks warm.

"Alright, and now let's swing," Mike told her. Together, they brought the ball back, then threw it down the lane. No words passed between the two of them as they breathlessly watched it travel closer and closer toward the pins. The couple of seconds dragged on until they felt like hours. On Mike's forehead, a bead of sweat formed and rolled down the side of his face. Then Mike and Foxy both gasped. All ten pins clattered to the ground in unison. A perfect strike.

" _Yes_!" shouted Foxy, not caring that they were in a public place. She spun around and immediately threw herself at Mike to pull him into a tight, lung-collapsing hug. It took the man a second to get over the initial shock of nearly falling on his ass, but he eventually returned the embrace with a laugh.

"Good job!" Mike exclaimed. That lopsided, toothy grin once again stretched across his face as he glanced up at her. "You did good." And then something in the background finally clicked. Mike had heard the song change earlier, but only realized _what_ was playing when he heard Foxy softly humming along with it.

" _Needed a friend... And the way I feel now I guess I'll be with you 'til the end."_

Mike wanted to mentally curse that bastard Jeremy for intentionally playing that song, but he found himself too distracted by Foxy's shimmering, golden eyes. And to him, for whatever unplaceable reason—nothing else really mattered for the next few wonderful seconds.


	25. Autograph

By the time midnight rolled around, Mike and Foxy had finished their first game and then went on to bowl two more before deciding that was it for the night. Both of them had improved over the elapsed time, with Mike partially regaining his old skills, and Foxy having quickly gotten the hang of it in her own right. Nothing that could be called "professional level", but with as good of a night as it had been anyway—neither of the two really felt bad about that.

Foxy slid her own sneakers back on with a relieved sigh. The weeknight crowd had dwindled until only one other person still bowled on the opposite end of the building. With this in mind, Foxy felt no need to pull her lowered hood back up over her head as the two prepared to leave for the night. She stood, turning toward Mike, and asked, "Ya' ready?"

"Yeah, just about." Over on the opposite side of the table, Mike was just finishing his task of gathering all their trash onto the now emptied tray. Mike dumped it into the nearest waste bin, then he walked back over and sat down. "Now all we need is for the waitress to take this pitcher, then we can return these shoes and leave," he told her, his finger impatiently tapping the table's wooden surface.

Choosing instead to remain on her feet, Foxy nodded. She took a moment to just listen to the music playing through the bowling alley's surrounding speakers, still surprised with how they made the sound feel as if it came from nearly every direction at once. Thankfully her extra sensitive ears had long adjusted to the loudness. The speakers' high volume contrasted heavily with the tunes they released though, as they had been playing slow, more romantic songs nonstop ever since Mike and Foxy's. _..unique "_ moment". She still had shivers run through her body at the thought of it. _Just what_ was _that?_ thought Foxy. She snuck a quick glance over at Mike out of the corner of her eye, thankful he didn't notice. _I know he was just helping me bowl, but that, combined with the hug was something...fuck, DIFFERENT, I guess. I can't say I_ didn't _like it,_ she noted, some strange feeling rising in her gut. She shook her head, peeking over at Mike once more before deciding she would give this more thought another time.

Not too long after that, their waitress came to the table to pick up the pitcher. "Thank you two for coming tonight!" The woman—Kathy, Foxy recalled—offered them a weary, yet still friendly smile. "I hope you two had a wonderful time," she said, "and hey! Be careful on those roads out there! Weather's..." Her voice trailed off as she appeared to look at Mike through new lenses. Then, as if coming to some stunning revelation, the lady's tired eyes suddenly lit up with a newfound energy. She nearly knocked Mike and Foxy from their seats with an excited scream.

Having instinctively moved back in his seat, Mike looked with wide eyes over at Foxy, who had gripped the edge of her seat. An expression of white-hot anger overtook the initial horror on her face. She bore her teeth, leaned forward and roared, "What the _fuck's_ your problem, lady!?"

The waitress didn't even so much as look in her direction. "Oh, my, GOD!" she exclaimed, followed by a squeal. "God, I—I can't believe it's actually _Mike Schmidt_ of all people! Here _—"_ She ripped a napkin from off of the table and shoved it toward Mike. "Sign this— _pleasepleaseplease_!"

Eying the woman, Mike blinked in bewilderment before his face quickly reddened a second later. He gulped, but took the napkin nonetheless. Quietly, Mike Schmidt signed his name and handed it back to her. Foxy noted that his hand had shaken throughout the entire process.

The waitress nearly wheezed as she squeezed the autograph to her chest. "I never a-actually thought I'd ever get to meet a dang _celebrity_ in a—in a place like _this!_ " she admitted, her mouth a toothy smile.

"I—well—"

"God, I gotta get g-going, Mike—i-is it okay if I call you that?—my uh, my shift's ending soon and I gotta get back there before my boss finds out," she blurted out.

Mike nodded without a word.

"Well, uh...see you!" Kathy strode a few steps away before almost tripping on her own feet trying to turn around. "Please, please _kill_ Toy Bonnie next time, will you?!" With that request of violence, the waitress was gone.

For the next few seconds that passed, Foxy noticed Mike's face gradually shift from that stunned, nearly _frightened_ expression into one of pride. An uncharacteristic grin stretched across his mouth, his eyes staring off into space. In the back of her mind, Foxy noted with empty disappointment that the starstruck waitress had barely even glanced in her direction. The look on Mike's face easily wiped that thought from her conscious, however, and she herself couldn't help but smile. Snickering, Foxy crossed around to the other side of the table. She pulled Mike out of his stupor using a series of snaps, then thrust her thumb over toward the door.

"Hm? Oh, uh...yeah. Right!" Mike hurriedly stood. Foxy heard him clear his throat as he turned away, and when he spun back around some of the color had briefly returned to his cheeks. Rental shoes now in hand, he motioned for Foxy's shoes, asking, "Ready?"

Foxy smirked. "Been ready," she reminded him. She bent down and grabbed her bowling shoes off of the floor, handing them over to Mike without even an ounce of reluctance. _Good riddance to_ those _ugly lookin' things,_ Foxy thought, sighing in relief as she stuffed her hand and hook back into her hoodie's pockets.

The two walked over to the service desk. Having spotted them approaching, Jeremy turned the background music down a few notches. Slight wrinkles formed on the man's cheeks and forehead as he grinned at the two of them, arms spread wide. "You both have a good time tonight?" he asked.

Foxy nodded an affirmation, a slight smile tugging at her lips. Mike simply stared back at him with an unamused expression, asking, " _Lionel Richie_ , Jeremy?"

The aforementioned man took a step back, throwing his hands up in feigned shock. Gasping, he asked, "What, _me?_ " His hands came back down as a cocky grin took over. "I'd _never_."

Mike rolled his eyes, but he returned the gesture anyway, setting both of their shoes on the counter in front of him. "Sure," he said with no attempt made to hide his sarcasm.

Taking the shoes, Jeremy disappeared into the backroom for a few seconds to put them back, then he walked back out. "Ah, well," he began, shrugging. "You caught me, I guess. What can I say, though—it worked for your mom and your old man, after all!"

This was new information to Foxy. _It worked for his mom and dad? ...what worked?_ she pondered, that last thought running through her head a couple times before her curiosity finally got the best of her. "What do ya' mean by that?" she asked, breaking her silence.

Mike and Jeremy exchanged looks for a moment—something Foxy wasn't particularly fond of—then they apparently came to some silent agreement, as just then Mike spoke up. "I'll explain when we hit the road," he told her, scratching the back of his neck.

"You _better_ ," Foxy shot back, her voice just barely loud enough to be heard over the toned down music. She let out a puff of air. _Or else..._

Repressing a chuckle behind tightened lips, Mike smiled and looked back at Jeremy. "But yeah, we had fun tonight," he told him, finally answering the man's initial question. "I mean, she'd never bowled before and I was super rusty at the start, but...we got better, at least. Good time."

"I gotcha, that's good to hear. Anyway, I hope you two have a goodnight," he said, looking at Foxy briefly, then back at Mike. Suddenly, as if reminded by something, he pointed a finger and added, "And hey—stay safe on the road out there, okay? That storm from when you got here hasn't cleared up any, doesn't seem to be leaving any time soon, and it's looking pretty dang nasty."

Hearing this warning, Foxy felt a chill run through her mechanical veins. She grimaced. The roads had already been pretty shitty by the time they got here a couple or hours ago, and if that winter storm had continued at the same intensity for over two whole hours... Foxy clenched her jaws, looking over to gauge Mike's reaction. Unsurprisingly, his expression seemed to mirror hers, though as per usual it was more subdued. Whether that was because he was genuinely less worried than her, she couldn't tell.

"Thanks, and I uh...I will," Mike replied, swallowing.

The conversation seemed to have ended there, so with that said he and Foxy turned and started out toward the exit. Before they even reached halfway toward the door, however, Jeremy called out to Mike—still from behind the desk, of course—asking if Mike could let his dad know he said 'hey'. With a stiff thumbs up over his shoulder, Mike continued with Foxy walking past the various vending machines. Not even a second passed before the duo reached the door. They stopped. Through the glass, the falling snow looked akin to the static seen on old-school tv sets, with a solid black background seen briefly, yet consistently behind the moving white. It had apparently continued accumulating atop the pavement over the course of two hours, and this left about five or six inches of the stuff piled up against the outside of the door. Thankfully enough, this door opened inward.

Foxy didn't exactly look forward to another trek through the storm, but the anticipation of it didn't feel much better to her. "Ugh...let's just get this over with already." Stepping past Mike, she yanked the door open. Immediately, a wave of frigid air crashed its way into the narrow hallway, and it took all of Foxy's willpower not to yelp and jump back. She gritted her teeth in defiance, taking her first step into the snow that had piled in along with the door opening. Then she took off at a sprint. The whipping wind stung like a bitch as she ran in the direction of where she vaguely remembered Mike parking his car. Though with only three others left in the parking lot, it wasn't that difficult.

Foxy was several feet away from the parked vehicle when she realized she had left Mike behind. She pushed that concern to the back of her mind for the moment though, nearly tearing the poor car door off of its hinges as she eagerly launched herself into the passenger seat.

It took a moment for Foxy to regain conscious thought. Though once she did, her mind instantly returned to the whereabouts of Mike. Before she could even so much as consider a viable course of action, Foxy then heard a loud noise to her left. She turned her head to find a pink-skinned Mike already turning the car on, his hand immediately moving from the ignition to a couple of dials on the dashboard. The radio blared. Seconds later, the heater reluctantly sputtered to life. It of course died an instant later, but that was solved by a swift punch to the top of the dash.

" _Thank god_..." Foxy moaned, turning slack from the ball she had instinctively curled into upon escaping the storm. She didn't instantly have feeling return to every part of her body, but the rushing of warm air from the vents worked wonders for her.

Even though Mike wasn't a huge fan of the cold himself, he couldn't help but grin at the exaggerated reaction. "Ready to go?" he asked, pulling the car out of the parking spot.

"No shit," Foxy replied.

With a chuckle, Mike turned out of the building's lot and started their drive back to the arena. A frown quickly returned to his face. Since the roads had slushed over along with a layer of ice, he had to drive a lot slower than he usually did. Plus, even though his wipers were frantically working to clear the windshield of the flurry of incoming snow, his headlights—and more importantly, the _road_ —were only marginally visible to him. Regardless, he drove on.

"...hey, slugger?" Foxy asked, breaking a growingly uncomfortable silence that had been building over the last few minutes.

Though he almost caught himself in the act, Mike refused to let his gaze stray from the road ahead. "Yeah?"

Foxy carefully considered her next words, staring out her window for a number of seconds before asking, "How'd the date go tonight?"

" _W-what?_ " asked Mike. He coughed to clear his throat, then he allowed himself a glance at Foxy out of the corner of his eye.

"Like, how'd dinner with...ya' know, _Toy Bonnie_ go? Anything interestin'?"

"Oh, right. Well," Mike began, "it went about as okay as you expect, I think." He briefly scratched his chin with his palm before returning it to the wheel, noting, "I mean, I'd never ridden in a limo before, so that was pretty neat. Aside from that it was boring. And...let's just say I'm still not at all fond of that rabbit, all things considered." Allowing himself to once more let his eyes leave the road, Mike looked over at Foxy with a slight smile. "I did learn something, though."

"What's that?" asked Foxy, quirking a brow.

Flashbacks of his explosion at Foxy and those feelings of cold, murky hopelessness came roaring back into Mike's head. A sickening taste of bile came to his mouth. He forced both of these down and told her, "I still have a chance at beating Toy Bonnie if I rematch her."

Foxy gawked at him incredulously. "Mike...did—did ya' seriously _not_ know _that?_ You were able to challenge that fuckin' chicken again, so why would Toy Bonnie have been any different?"

Mike blinked, staring blankly through the windshield before _sloooowly_ tilting his head forward onto the wheel. "Ugh, I...it just...just..." No matter how hard he tried, he just couldn't think of a way to properly explain _why_ or _how_ he had forgotten that. How could he have? Had the shame of still losing after they had spent all that time training overcome any kind of rational judgment? Could it have just simply slipped from Mike's mind, or hell—maybe not even occur to him at all? At the moment, Mike was too embarrassed with the whole 'freaking out at his closest friend for no good reason whatsoever' realization to really even be able to seriously consider any of those possibilities. So he just sort of gave up with even trying to explain it. He shook his head, resorting to looking back out at the road. "I'm sorry. That was dumb of me."

"No, no—it's _fine_ , Mike," Foxy interjected. "I guess now I just more understand why ya' were so damn upset after losin'." She gently grabbed his arm. "...you thought ya' were done with."

Realizing from his lack of response that Mike didn't want to talk about it any further, Foxy quickly considered other conversational topics. Soon enough, she recalled something she had tried asking him earlier, but which he had had no time to properly answer. She was still just as curious about it. In fact, since they had spent the last couple of hours bowling, Foxy was probably even _more_ curious now. "Since we're talkin'," she started, retreating her hand, "can I ask ya' something else, too?"

"...as long as it doesn't have anything else to do with Toy Bonnie, sure," Mike replied, with a soft smile.

Foxy snickered. "I'm just still wonderin' why you and your dad stopped bowling all those years ago. Never gave me an answer to that one."

The music in the car continued uninterrupted for the next handful of seconds. It seemed as if somebody had suddenly snuffed out any remaining sparks of cheerfulness within the vehicle, a feeling that didn't go unnoticed by Foxy. Looking over at Mike, she saw that his expression had subtly changed. The man's brows were furrowed only a couple degrees deeper, but his jaw was clenched. To put it bluntly: Mike looked uncomfortable.

Gulping, Mike let out a breath through thin lips, his hands tightening around the wheel. He still stared straight ahead, yet as Foxy looked even closer she saw his pupils blankly darting about, as if his mind was tangled deep in consideration. "It's a long story," he eventually murmured.

Something about the forced monotone to his voice shook her. Foxy's ears lowered in shame as she said, "If...if ya' don't want to tell me, Mike, it's fine—I-I swear."

" _No_ ," blurted Mike, "it's just—"

The track playing through the radio abruptly stopped. Her ears suddenly perking back up, Foxy also heard the hum of the engine fade from existence moments later. Her breath caught in her throat. Then, the car shut off completely.

" _Shit, shit!_ " Mike stomped his foot down on the gas pedal several times, but it was to no avail. The vehicle, essentially just a box on ice at this point, continued its slow deceleration regardless. "Damn it!" he shouted, slamming a fist against the wheel.

" _M-MIKE!?_ "

" _Not now_!"

Quickly realizing he had no other options, Mike growled in frustration and turned the wheel to try and steer the car safely to the side of the road. Fortunately for him, the car responded to his commands—albeit slowly—gradually careening toward the right side of the road. A pause, then the ride changed into a rough bumpiness as the wheels sloshed atop the snow-covered grass. Mike struggled to see a single thing through the windshield, but he managed to just barely catch sight of a tree in time to narrowly avoid it. Seconds later, the car slid to a complete stop.


	26. Stranded Together

Almost a full minute after the car came to a stop, Mike finally felt as if his heart _wasn't_ going to explode. He took a brief moment to assess the current situation. They had miraculously avoided slamming into any trees, so the car hadn't crashed into anything. Which meant that Foxy and him were still alive and unharmed. That was a plus. The bad news? The car's engine had died, meaning that the heating system no longer functioned. This was about to be a very cold night.

"Are you...are you okay?" asked Mike, sounding loud in the unnaturally quiet ambience.

Her golden eyes glowing through the darkness, Foxy turned toward him and fervently nodded. "Are you?"

"Yeah," Mike replied. He breathed a sigh of relief before shaking his head. "I think my car's done with, though."

"What?! C-can't ya' get it started again?" Foxy asked.

Mike let out a breath. "I can try." He turned the key so the ignition was back on 'Off', then, gulping, he turned it back. A second passed in awful silence. Nothing. Foxy watched Mike repeat the process several times to no avail, and with each failed startup that feeling of dread in her chest only grew until it neared levels of panic. "Damn!" Mike whispered, punching the wheel after finally giving up. After a moment of fuming consideration, Mike opened and reached into the center console. He retrieved a screwdriver. Unbuckling his seatbelt, Mike turned to look at Foxy and told her, "I uh...will be right back."

Confused, Foxy blinked and tilted her head. What Mike meant quickly dawned on her however when he grunted and pushed the car door open. The following scream that left her lips was nearly drowned out by the sound of the howling wind rushing past the vehicle. "What the FUCK do ya' think you're doin'?!" Foxy shouted into the storm, but a car door slamming shut was the only response she got.

"Shit! _Dammit_ , Mike!" Foxy hissed. Her tone softened a tad as she continued to herself, "You're gonna freeze to death out there..." She continued staring at the door for a moment after Mike closed it, longing for him to quickly get his ass back in the car since she knew he wouldn't last long outside. Teeth chattering, Foxy huffed and pulled her arms in around her chest. "A-and I might die in _here_ myself not long after _..."_

Seconds later a creak was heard from the front of the car. "What the h-hell...?" Foxy leaned forward in her seat, brows furrowed in worried confusion. She turned her head this way and that to try to see through the windshield, but due to the wipers no longer battling the winter onslaught, Foxy didn't have much luck in that endeavor. Slowly, she began to consider running out into the storm to retrieve Mike. Even though she would have sooner willingly lost her other hand than do that, she wasn't liking how long the man had been out in what she assumed was several degrees below zero. A period of nothing slowly passed. Then Foxy felt the whole vehicle shift, accompanied by another loud sound from in front of her. Suddenly, the driver's side door opened as Mike threw himself back into the seat with a grunt.

Violently shivering, Mike opened his mouth to speak but no words left him. A thin layer of snow almost completely covered his coat and jeans. Mike sunk back into the seat as far as he could go, but as he stowed the screwdriver away again, Foxy noticed with a gasp that she could very clearly see the skin of his hands. He hadn't worn any gloves.

"You...you fuckin' _idiot!_ " Foxy shouted, teeth bore. Just barely holding back the urge to smack the man, she took several deep breaths to calm her already-frayed nerves. She moved on autopilot; Foxy ignored his meager resistance and—after some minor adjustments in her seating—shoved one of his hands into the front pocket of her hoodie. She kept the other gripped tightly in her fur-covered hand.

"What are y—"

"Ya' know, for someone who uses their hands a lot, _you sure don't seem like ya' mind LOSIN' 'em_ ," Foxy chided, her voice still shaking. Whether it was from the cold or terror at this point, she couldn't tell. Not that it was of any real concern to her at the moment.

Mike tried to say something once more, but the concern shown on both Foxy's face and in her voice shut up any protests he had at the moment. Besides, her hand around his actually felt awfully nice after being out in the cold. Unable to stop his pained wheezing to any major degree, Mike resigned to just weakly squeezing her hand. "S-sorry," he murmured after some time had passed.

"It's fine, ya' idiot." Foxy softly laughed, then added, "Why did ya' even feel the need to do that?"

"I needed to check under the hood to see if I could figure out what the issue is with this...this _fucking_ piece of junk."

"Oh." _I guess that means I just...yelled at him for trying to help us_ , Foxy realized, clearing her throat in embarrassment. "Well, um...did ya' at least figure it out?"

Mike let out a now slightly visible puff of air from thin lips. "Not really. Nothing I could see, anyway. Guess this...this ol' thing just couldn't take the weather."

"I don't think we're farin' too much better right now," Foxy pointed out.

Chuckling, a shadow of a smirk came to Mike's face as he assured her, "Don't worry, I have something that'll help us out just fine."

Foxy's eyes lit up—both figuratively and literally. "Ya' do?!" she asked. "Well what are ya' waiting for then?!"

"Waiting for myself to warm back up a little more."

The smile on Foxy's face wavered, then suddenly disappeared all at once as realization struck her. "No. _No!_ Mike, you're _not_ goin' out there again," she stated, frowning. "Don't be stupid."

"Foxy. I have a heated blanket in my trunk for just this situation. It'll last us long enough for help to get here."

Foxy gulped, then with a hint of reluctance she replied, "I'll get it, then."

"Wait—"

" _No_ ," Foxy interjected, a determined edge to her voice. "Ya' nearly got frostbite goin' out there the first time, I ain't letting you leave this car again."

"But I—" Mike began before being stopped once more.

"Just shut up, Mike." Foxy put a finger to his lips. "It'll be— _I'll_ be fine," she assured him, shifting her wording mid-sentence. With that said, and before Mike could argue any further, Foxy opened the door. The moment she opened it, what felt like a solid brick wall of frigid air smacked into her. It instantly chilled Foxy to her very core, making her feel as if she might abruptly lock up and collapse at any moment. She hoped that such a thing wouldn't happen.

Foxy stepped out, and even though the whipping wind and almost impenetrable sheet of falling snow made what already felt like a frozen hellscape somehow even _worse—_ she pushed onward, kicking the door shut behind her. Once Foxy was completely out in the blizzard, visibility of her surroundings became almost zero. She combated this problem by keeping her hook held out against the car. Foxy hurried with desperate breaths as fast as she could toward the trunk, the knee-high snow slowing her down immensely.

With as miserable as the weather was already making her, she was shocked to find that it could get even worse; she tripped. Foxy struggled but got back up out of the snow relatively quickly. Even though her clothes were now completely covered, she managed to finally get to the back of the car. The trunk had a handle on its outside much to Foxy's good fortune, and to make it even better the thing was unlocked. Foxy wasted no time in opening it.

Various tools and a toolbox littered the entire left side of the small space. Ignoring those, Foxy snatched up the folded blanket to the right and shut the trunk again. Having grown almost numb at this point, she was careful to keep the blanket and the wire hanging off of it above the snow on her way back. Rather than return to the passenger seat, Foxy instead climbed into the back of the car.

She immediately tossed the blanket over to Mike upon closing the door behind her. " _Get-it-working_ ," she barked, the statement coming out as a strung-together mess.

Barely catching the blanket in one of his still-thawing hands, Mike readjusted the phone held in his other hand until he was held it with his shoulder. He began unfolding the blanket while resuming the conversation he had just been having. "—sorry, could you repeat that last part?" Mike asked the voice on the phone.

Meanwhile, in the back of the car, Foxy got to work removing her snow-covered and partially soaked clothes to try and preserve heat. Her shoes, socks, jeans and jacket had taken the brunt of it all, and they were a bitch to take off in the cramped space of the vehicle. Even with how embarrassing this might have been in any other situation, Foxy knew that the current circumstances overrode that concern. Plus, she already felt marginally better once the clothes were gone. "Marginally" being the keyword there, as although Foxy's fur usually excelled at keeping her warm, a lot of it had too become wet in the process of going outside. _That fuckin' thing BETTER have been worth it,_ she thought bitterly, tossing the sopping heap of clothes onto the seat ahead of her.

"...wait, re—" Mike paused as he noticed something move out of his peripheral. He instinctively followed the path of whatever it was with his eyes until he came upon the pile of clothes now laying in the seat to his right. Quirking a brow, Mike couldn't help but look back out of curiosity.

Foxy, wearing nothing but her undergarments, sat in the backseat with her knees pulled up to her chest. She shivered as she leered at him. " _BLANKET,"_ she demanded. " _NOW!"_

The phone slid off of Mike's shoulder and landed somewhere on the floor in front of him. Face burning an even deeper shade of pink, Mike gulped, his hands moving in a frenzy to find the blanket's remote. He turned it to the highest setting the instant it came into his grasp, then tossed it behind him without even so much as a glance. Mike tried his best not to think of that image now burned into his on-the-fritz brain. In his flustered state, it took Mike several seconds for him to remember that he had dropped his phone just a moment ago.

Mike lunged for the phone, thankful for the momentary distraction from his thoughts. "H-hello? You still there?" Mike stammered. Much to his relief, the person on the other end hadn't hung up in his absence. "Sorry, I uh—I dropped my phone. Now as I was saying..."

Foxy didn't pay much mind at all to whatever Mike was talking about on the phone. Not out of a lack of interest per se, but because she almost literally could not think with how amazing she currently felt. Without even having heated up yet, the blanket itself had helped immensely—in fact, it had even made Foxy's skin _burn_ by going from cold to hot so spontaneously. Once that sensation had subsided, though, and she could actually feel the warmth emanating from the strange fabric, Foxy knew that her trip into the storm had been worth it. This was pure _bliss_.

"Well, I guess we're gonna be here for a while."

Foxy blinked, surprised by the sudden sound. She peeked her head out from beneath the blanket. "Hm?" she murmured.

"I just got off the phone with the towing company," Mike told her. He peeked over his shoulder at first, then he turned around, feeling much more comfortable with looking at Foxy now that the blanket covered her. "Turns out, the roads are so bad that at the fastest they can go, it'll take them at least an hour to reach us."

Eyes widening, Foxy glanced at the blanket then back at Mike. Worry was etched on her face when she asked, "Will the battery in this thing last until then?"

"Yeah, it'll last," Mike replied. After a moment's pause, he noted, "It's probably a good thing I didn't mention it on the phone, though."

That got a laugh out of Foxy in spite of their situation. However, the sight of the clouds that left her maw with each barely concealed snort yanked Foxy back down to Earth. They were still trapped in a shitty car right in the middle of a blizzard. Foxy subconsciously adjusted the blanket around her. As she did so, a realization dawned on her.

"This blanket is...really, really fuckin' _small_ , actually," Foxy murmured to herself. She frowned as she watched Mike climb over the center console, sitting himself down on the opposite end of the backseat. "Mike, I don't think this thing's gonna be big enough for the both of us."

"What?" asked Mike, his coat already half-way off. With only a glance at the blanket, Mike simply shrugged as he slid his coat off completely. He discarded it onto the seat in front of him. "Oh, that's...okay," Mike replied. He clenched his jaw for a moment, thinking. "We can just take turns with it, then. You can go first."

Foxy gaped at him. _Did he SERIOUSLY just suggest...?_ She let out a loud groan to the ceiling before looking back at him. " _Mike_."

"Y-yes?" Mike asked, gulping at both the tone of Foxy's voice, and that she very clearly was glaring daggers at him. Neither of which gave off good vibes.

"Just get your ass over here," Foxy told him, lifting up the side of the blanket closest to Mike. She flinched as she felt a particularly _cold_ wind brush up against her bare leg.

Mike's eyes widened, but he quickly averted them. "No. No, I...I'll be alright with just waiting, Foxy."

"For fuck's sake, it's not like I'm gonna pounce you or anythin'. Come on!"

"I'm _fine_." He turned away. Even from where Foxy sat, she could see that Mike shivered. She snapped.

" _MICHAEL!_ " Foxy growled, reaching out to tilt Mike's head toward her. "I don't give a fuck if it's gonna be uncomfortable for you—I'm not a fan of wearing practically _nothing_ right next to my friend either—but I'd prefer us both being _uncomfortable_ and living over being fuckin' DEAD." She gulped and took a deep breath. "Now either ya' man up and get over here, or so help me I will SCOOT MYSELF OVER THERE AND BEAR HUG YOUR ASS UNTIL HELP ARRIVES! _Got it?"_

For a second, Mike's gray eyes flashed with anger. Then he turned and looked off into space for what seemed like an eternity before slowly releasing a sigh. A bead of sweat rolled down Mike's forehead as he begrudgingly moved over next to her, turning his head away in the process. Foxy snickered when she heard Mike mumbling under his breath. She lowered the blanket so it covered the both of them.

Minutes passed by. Once again, an unnatural silence had overtaken the duo as they sat together in the backseat. Mike had eventually given up his muttering, yet he still tried to keep his thoughts elsewhere. It wasn't that he was uncomfortable with such close proximity to the animatronic; though that was usually the case with other people—Mike just couldn't help how flustered he felt right now. _At least I'm not cold anymore._ Even through his jeans, he could sense the heat radiating off of Foxy's bare legs.

Foxy was certainly not oblivious to it, either. She couldn't lie though, she actually felt perfectly fine with the current arrangement in seating. In fact, Foxy slowly realized that the flames in her chest weren't just from her body's mechanics finally regaining their warmth—she was actually _enjoying_ it. Cheeks burning as hot as her chest, Foxy subconsciously cleared her throat.

"Hm?" Mike hummed.

Blinking at the noise, Foxy turned her head to him. Mike just stared. Then Foxy realized: he thought she had been trying to get his attention. _Well, since I AM sick of this 'no talking' bullshit..._ She considered various conversational options before quickly remembering something from earlier in the night.

"I'm just still thinkin' about that question I tried to ask ya' today," she explained. When Mike only gave Foxy a confused look in response, she asked: "Ya' know, that one about why you and your dad stopped bowling?"

"Oh. _That_." With that said, Mike broke eye contact. "Honestly, I was...kind of hoping you had forgotten about it," he admitted.

Foxy looked genuinely taken aback by the statement. "Why?"

"Because..." Mike struggled for the words to accurately describe his reasoning. In the end, he wasn't exactly satisfied with the result, but it got the point across. "...well, I guess...because it's the sort of story that ends up being a lot more than you would think it'd be, you know?" He glanced at Foxy before returning his gaze to the floor in front of them. "It's complicated."

"Oh. Oh my god, I...I-I'm sorry, slugger. I didn't know it was something like _that_ ," Foxy replied, frowning. "Look, if you're at all uncomfortable with talking about—"

"Yes, I'm _uncomfortable with it,"_ Mike interjected, his tone harsh. Guilt overtook him, and he was forced to close his eyes to remain calm. Mike tried once more, voice shaking. "...I'm uncomfortable doing this, yes."

Unphased by the man's initial response, Foxy offered him a friendly smile. "Then I'm not gonna force ya', slugger. What the hell kind of friend would I be then?"

"That's just it—you're my friend." Mike swallowed, lips slightly parted. "It's only right that I tell _you_ of all people."

Foxy sat quiet for a moment before asking, "Are ya' sure you want to?"

"Not really, but I feel I have to get this off my chest," Mike admitted. He looked over at Foxy, suddenly reminded of just how close they were. He had been able to forget for a brief period of time. "This might be a bit of a lengthy story. Is that okay?"

Foxy shifted her seating as much as she comfortably could under the blanket and then she nodded.

Mike took a long, drawn out breath before beginning. "Alright, so like I said, I used to go bowling a lot as a kid. And after meeting Jeremy, you probably know that it was my _dad_ that I used to go with. So yeah, starting from when I was four years old, my dad and I used to go to the bowling alley nearly everyday. My old man had always enjoyed bowling, so I guess this was an opportunity for him to do what he enjoyed _and_ spend time with me.

"Hell, I eventually started getting pretty good at it myself," Mike stated, "he even had plans for the two of us to make a team once I got old enough." He smiled at the memory. Though when Mike spoke again, his face took on that somber expression again. "That eventually came to a crashing halt one day when I..."

Mike clenched and unclenched his jaws, trying to force himself to continue. Instead of directly approaching it, though, Mike chose to be cautious. Telling a friend was a lot different than talking to a therapist.

"Foxy, this might sound like a dumb question, but you...you've heard of cancer before, right?" Mike asked.

Foxy suddenly looked as if she had seen a ghost. Her golden eyes widened, and she leaned just a few degrees closer to the man. "Of _course_ I've heard of it, but...Mike, w-what are ya' implyin' here?"

Not responding at first, Mike let loose a series of slow, shaking breaths, sounding like he was trying desperately to hold himself together. One look into his eyes told Foxy all she needed to know. A second later and Mike was wrapped in an embrace by the vixen, her warm, fur-covered arms wrapped around his torso like a vicegrip.

"No, no—I-I'm fine. Really. Just...let me explain." Since Foxy's chin now rested on his shoulder, Mike lowered his voice to merely a whisper. "Back when I was six years old, a doctor diagnosed me with...well, lung cancer. Thankfully for me, they caught it in some of its earliest stages!" Mike swallowed, adding, "You wouldn't believe how rare that is..."

"I don't understand," Foxy whispered. "That was...what, sixteen years ago? How are ya' not...not...?"

"Dead?" Mike guessed.

Foxy cringed, but nodded.

"I'll get to that part," replied Mike. "Anyway, when this happened I think my parents just sort of _panicked_. They stopped letting me leave the house while I was getting treatment. At all. From age six until twelve, I only really left the house to go to the hospital."

"I guess that meant the end of you and your dad bowlin', huh?"

Mike laughed a bitter, sardonic chuckle. "Yeah. Hell, they only let me start going to public schools again when I got to _high school_."

When he felt a furry hand come up to rest on his chest, Mike sighed, leaning into it. "I can't really blame them for it myself since they were still inexperienced parents—they still haven't forgiven themselves, after all—but it might explain why I'm the way I am."

"Now hold on—what do ya' mean by _that_?" Foxy asked, quirking a brow.

"Foxy, I wasn't lying when I said you're my _only_ friend. Not much of a people person. I knew a kid back when I was a younger, but that's it." Suddenly, Mike's face flushed a bit as a rare memory came to mind. "...well, I _guess_ I had a girlfriend back when I was just a teenager, but that was for just a week during my sophomore year. And she only did it so I would finish her math homework."

Again, even with awful the current topic really was, Foxy found herself snickering at the slight distraction. It quickly faded, though, and she soon found herself frowning once more. Mike continued speaking.

"Getting back on topic...the doctors were able to keep the cancer from spreading for years with surgery, and—and chemotherapy." Mike shuddered at the word, subconsciously running a hand through his hair. "It worked. Or at least it seemed to for awhile, anyway. When I was twelve—hell, I even remember the exact day they told my parents—the doctors worried that it was just about to spread outside of my lungs for the first time.

This forced them to use something that was a last resort at the time: a lung transplant. They cut out my lungs, and replaced them with...well, _my lungs._ "

Foxy just stared. She looked as if she had a million questions swirling around in her head at once, but it was all too much of a jumbled mess for any of them to actually leave her mouth.

Realizing that the process sounded absolutely crazy with the way he had explained it, Mike momentarily bit his bottom lip. "They...essentially grew a cloned pair of my lungs out of... _er_...stem cells or whatever," Mike explained, not knowing much of the exacts himself. He eventually just shook his head. "Regardless of _how_ they did it, the gist of it is that after the surgery, I was cancer-free. Of course, the doctors still have me come by and get checked out every so often to make sure it hasn't come back, but with ten years having passed since then..."

Once Mike didn't follow up with anything else, Foxy knew that the story had all but ended. She sighed and lowered her head back down on to his shoulder. "Fuck. I just...I just wish you _hadn't_ have had to gone through all that shit, Mike," Foxy whispered, looking down at him. "Especially at such a young age."

"I don't."

The words left Mike's mouth without even a second's hesitation. Just how absurd that sounded pushed Foxy over the edge, making her burst out in joyless laughter. Tears welled up in her eyes, and she asked, "And why the hell's that, slugger?"

Instinct moved Mike's hands, and before he knew it he was wiping the tears from Foxy's face. She didn't seem to mind however, simply just closing her eyes and letting Mike do so.

At this point, something within Mike realized that there wasn't much point in hiding anymore. "Well...let's just say that growing up the way I did ended up giving me some pretty major anger issues among—you know— _other_ issues. After doing some things I really, _really_ regret"—Mike's hands clenched for an instinct—"I decided that I needed something to help me deal with all of that. Therapy helped for sure, don't get me wrong, but it was through that decision that I also found boxing."

Foxy opened her eyes to see Mike still staring at her. She wiped away some of the moisture from around her eyes, then sigh and looked away, slightly ashamed of herself for crying. "So that's how you got into the sport," Foxy stated. With a snort, she then added, "Shit, I just _now_ realized I never even bothered to ask you how ya' got into boxing in the first place."

Dismissively waving the statement away, Mike admitted, "If it makes you feel any better, I still have yet to ask you about a lot of your past."

"Hmmm..." A smile just barely stayed off of Foxy's face as she scratched her chin with her hook. "Ya' know, now that I think about it—that really _doesn't_ make me feel any better."

Mike rolled his eyes but chuckled anyway. "Yeah, yeah..." Letting the mood settle back down, he anxiously sighed. It dawned on him that he had been subconsciously leading the conversation toward a certain topic. Even with knowing where it was heading, Mike still didn't know if he was truly ready to go down that road. He threw caution to the wind and went on anyway.

"If I hadn't gone through all that bullshit as a kid, then I never would've gotten into boxing. I wouldn't _be_ where I am today." The man swallowed, shifting the blanket off of him a little bit as he felt heat rising in his chest. _Point of no return, I guess,_ Mike thought nervously. He took a deep, steadying breath before finally saying, "I would have also never met _you_ , Foxy. And, well...as cheesy as it sounds, I—I think meeting you made all the pain worth it."

Even a few seconds after the words had left Mike's mouth, Foxy still just stared at him in awe. Her maw hung ajar slightly as she struggled to comprehend his words. _Did he...just actually say that? Does that mean what I think it means or am I just being an overly hopeful dumbass and misinterpreting the message?_ Eyes wide, her gaze flickered between his eyes and lips. "Slugger..."

"Heh." Mike scratched his neck, cheeks burning red hot against the cool air.

Foxy became all at once aware of just how close they _really_ sat next to each other. The heat produced by the blanket was nothing compared to the warmth radiating from Mike's body. Not that she was bothered by that. She could almost forget that the two of them were trapped by a blizzard in the middle of nowhere. Almost.

"I..." the animatronic vixen began. Feeling frustrated by her own hesitance, Foxy swallowed a lump in her throat and blurted out, "Look, I ain't gonna pussyfoot around it—I _really_ like ya', Mike." _Fuck it, might as well keep going while I'm at it._

"You're always makin' me laugh. Hell, I've always had a blast hangin' out with ya', whether we were training or not. And tonight—even with our shitty luck when it came to your car—was just so goddamn _amazing._ Despite me being some—" Foxy paused for a second and squeezed her eyes shut. When she spoke again, her voice was a few decibels quieter. "Despite me _seein'_ myself as just some freak with a hook, you've actually made me feel like a person again. For the first time in over thirty years I actually feel like I'm _worth_ somethin'."

The next thing Mike knew, he had leaned in and wrapped his arms around Foxy's torso, pulling her into a gentle hug. Pushing it even further though, he had also given Foxy a small, just barely conceivable peck on the cheek. From the look on Foxy's face, she was just as shocked as he was at this move.

That shock quickly faded, however, to be replaced by a wide, toothy smirk across her chops. "So...I'm guessin' that's your way of saying you like me too?" Foxy asked, an uncharacteristic giggle leaving her throat.

With the distance between them having closed even further, Mike could now feel each breath against his skin, the faint scent of strawberries finding his nose. His hands still rested on the small of Foxy's back, her fur hot in between each finger. Mike grinned nervously, yet at the same time—with excitement. He admitted, "Well, you of all people should know...I've always spoken better with actions than with words."

Foxy opened her maw to speak and after taking a slow, lingering intake of air, she leaned even closer. "Keep your hands right there for a second, will ya'?"


	27. Staying Warm

**Disclaimer: Yadda yadda, adult situations and the like. If you're not 18, you should probably _not_ read this chapter** **. I ain't your mom, I'm just saying. Enjoy.**

* * *

Anticipation thumped within Foxy's chest as she brought her hand—and hook, though she did so cautiously—around to Mike's back. She felt the warmth radiating through his shirt. Letting the moment linger, Foxy took in the natural scent of the man next to her. Strong, yet not overwhelming. While she could detect a faint touch of mint from him, there was something else there that she could only describe as 'Mike'. Foxy absolutely _loved_ it.

Wasting no more time, Foxy excitedly closed the distance between their faces. ...only to bump noses with him. Mike's chuckles were ignored with a roll of her eyes. She pulled away for a brief moment before trying again, but this time she compensated by just barely tilting her head back. Upon contact with Mike's lips, Foxy instinctively shut her eyes.

There were no figurative sparks (or literal ones, thankfully), but she did feel her world stop for a moment as she held the touch. The butterflies that had been in Foxy's stomach for the past few weeks came to one last giant crescendo of intensity before dying off all at once. Foxy felt Mike's hands moving slowly, timidly down her back before stopping at her waist to grab handfuls of fur. A content hum left her throat at the contact. As much as she wanted this initial kiss to never end, the two eventually had to break off to catch their breath.

Even though they had to part briefly, Mike and Foxy didn't truly separate, their foreheads leaned against one another. Almost immediately, they caught each other's gaze. Foxy stared into the man's gray eyes and he gazed back, a slightly dazed look on his face that Foxy knew she probably mirrored. She looked down and saw his mouth ajar. It wasn't until a few seconds later that Mike actually managed any words.

" _Holy shit_..." he murmured. Not exactly eloquent. Though Foxy didn't mind that one bit. Hearing him be vulgar stirred up something inside of Foxy that made her legs shake.

Truth be told, Foxy was still trying to wrap her mind around finally doing something like this. It was better than all her novels had said it'd be. Better than she had imagined it, almost every night since she had met Mike. Not that Foxy could've really known, anyway. She had never even _hugged_ another individual before Mike. Now, looking in said man's eyes, Foxy had only one thought running through her head. _Just fuckin' kiss me again already._

Suddenly, though, Mike winced in what looked like pain. Foxy noticed this and withdrew a bit, momentarily torn out of her thoughts. "What is it?" she asked, concerned.

"Nothing, just...your hook...poked me in the back is all."

Frowning, Foxy looked down at the appendage. No anger showed on her face, instead only disappointment etched itself into her vulpine features. It genuinely surprised Foxy that she didn't feel any desire to tear that hook off right then, like she had wished many times before. She had to admit, however; it certainly soured the mood.

Realizing that what he said had struck a nerve in Foxy, Mike sighed. _Shit_ , Mike thought. He acted on instinct and caught Foxy off-guard by reaching over and grabbing the curved piece of metal with both hands. Mike didn't move it or anything like that, he just kept his hands on it, chuckling lightly as he looked at her.

"Foxy, I've told you before that this doesn't bother me," Mike assured her, breaths coming out as transparent clouds. "Don't worry about it. Just...try not to stab—" His sentence went unfinished as Foxy lunged at him with another passionate kiss.

Her momentum pushed Mike back against the seat. An unintentional grunt left his mouth, only to be muffled by Foxy's surprisingly soft lips against his. Regardless, it took Mike a beat to start returning Foxy's eager 'attack'. He put a hand up to Foxy's face, fingers slowly caressing her cheek.

So distracted were the two of them that neither seemed to notice the blanket slipping off of them. Of course, when it finally fell to the floor and the cold struck Foxy's torso, she definitely took note of it. Foxy broke the liplock with a groan, clawing for the blanket. While yanking it back up to cover the two of them again, Foxy caught sight of Mike's t-shirt and a devious smirk stretched across her mouth. She grabbed the shirt by its hem.

Mike gulped, his mind immediately going south with thoughts of what her intention may be. Then Foxy tried tugging the shirt upward. Mike blinked in confusion before realizing what she was trying to do, and he complied by lifting his arms up.

The low roof of the car made the task a bit tedious, but soon enough Mike's shirt was off and tossed over into the driver's seat to join his coat. A light wisp of the frigid air managed to reach Mike's skin around the edges of the blanket. He shuddered, though the cold was only partially the reason for it. Foxy stared hungrily at the man's now-exposed chest. While she had previously seen it when mending Mike's injuries, something about the sight in this current situation felt so much better to Foxy. And so, _so_ much hotter.

 _Finally..._ she thought, putting a hand to his chest. Foxy pulled Mike in once again, her hand sliding down until it rested upon his abdomen. Up until this point they had only been merely kissing. However, while they had been content with just doing that at first, both of them had started to grow a little impatient with the slow pace. Only the anxiety of inexperience kept either from daring to progress for awhile. Eventually though, Foxy mustered the courage needed to throw caution to the wind, and—taking a hint from one of her books—she nervously attempted to add her tongue into the mix.

The feeling of something brushing against his mouth nearly caused Mike to jump, a reaction that didn't go unnoticed by Foxy. For a moment the man didn't further respond. Foxy's heart thumped like a war drum in her chest. Then, having seemingly processed that it was indeed her tongue, Mike slowly opened his mouth to allow her access.

At first, Foxy simply just ran her tongue across Mike's upper teeth, probing around in the newly accessible territory. She wanted to take her sweet time with this new experience—to take in and savor each and every detail. She brushed up against Mike's own tongue soon enough, and it naturally progressed from there.

Neither of the two had really known how exactly this little 'battle of the tongues' was supposed to go beforehand. Honestly, they both just desperately hoped that their inexperience wasn't too obvious to the other. Mike initially worried that there was a specific method he was unaware of, and Foxy herself just tried her damnedest not to bite Mike. Thankfully, these worries began fading away as some kind of carnal instinct slowly overtook them. Before they knew it, Mike and Foxy had lost themselves.

Each side wrestled for control. What felt like white hot flames raged on in Foxy's loins, and she moved to be nearly sitting on top of Mike. The tips of her ears brushing uncomfortably against the roof didn't once occur to her. She just wanted Mike even closer. Her grip moved to the back of Mike's head, pulling him closer to try and somehow deepen the kiss.

Mike both heard and felt Foxy moan into his mouth. The sensation of it—the sound of it in particular—somehow quickened the rate at which his jeans grew tighter around his groin. Mike kept one hand remaining on Foxy's waist, but he took the other one and suddenly grabbed her ass. She gasped at the contact—something that briefly allowed Mike to lead in their exchange. Honestly, Mike was shocked at his own move. Once his frizzled mind finally registered the position of his hand, he gently groped the furred skin in his grasp.

While Foxy wasn't exactly in her physical prime anymore, her body hadn't gone to waste in the slightest. Not that this was anything new to Mike. He had already noticed this in her firmly muscular arms during workouts, and while he had tried his absolute best to not look before, he had also gotten that idea from her thighs.

 _Not hard as a brick, but...but not flabby either,_ thought Mike, experimentally kneading his hand. No matter how long he thought about it, he couldn't think of anything to compare with the feel of her. His other hand joined in on the action. Mike alternated between just squeezing and running his fingers through her fur, subconsciously seeing which one she preferred. A quiet squeak told him it was the squeezing.

The strawberry aroma Mike noticed earlier now intermingled with the vivid stench of sweat from both him and Foxy, though along with those two lingered another smell—a faint, sweet one that had grown stronger as the two made out.

The pair eventually had to stop for air again. This time even Foxy took in heaving breaths. While recovering, her competitive side surfaced a bit. She gritted her teeth at how easily Mike had caught her by surprise. Not that she really _minded_ what he did, per se. Foxy just wasn't about to simply sit back and let Mike take control. A smirk curled the corners of her lips up as she considered a couple ways she could get back at the man and take charge again.

"Michael..." Foxy murmured, still breathing heavily. She tilted his head up with her hook so he looked directly into her half-lidded eyes. Mike, having not recovered quite yet, quirked a brow to show he heard. That unguarded, vulnerable look on his face brought Foxy a heartfelt smile. It was a rare sight. Before she could dwell on it for long, however, the sensation of Mike's hands on her yanked Foxy back into the current situation. She opened her mouth, took a moment to gather the nerves, then, in the most sultry voice she could manage: "Just take those damn pants off already, will ya'?"

At first, the words seemed to not register in Mike's head. Then his eyes widened, and his brows shot up as it all hit him. "Sure," he said lowly, "sure." It took a lot of willpower for Mike to say that as steadily as he had, and he was sure Foxy could tell. An almost overwhelming sense of anxiety rose in his gut. Mike reluctantly pulled his hands away from Foxy as he scooted over to the other end of the seat, immediately shivering once the warmth of the blanket —and Foxy—left him. Due to the shaking of his hands, he fumbled with the loop of his belt for a solid couple of seconds before finally managing to undo it. The button and zipper were much easier after that.

While Mike struggled with getting out of his jeans, Foxy used the cover of the blanket to plant a surprise. She reached around to her back and, although the process was slightly more difficult with the eagerness messing up Foxy's movements, she unhooked the strap of her bra. It stuck to her sweat-slicked fur, but then fell into a well-placed hand. Foxy slid the bra as stealthily as possible into the front seat. She shifted the blanket around her to try and make the surprise less obvious to Mike, just barely biting back a gasp when the fabric rubbed against her newly exposed skin. Getting past the sensitivity, Foxy glanced over at Mike.

Mike, covered only by his boxers now, tossed his jeans aside where the rest of his clothes now sat. By that point the cold had started actually getting to Mike, and he scrambled across the seat to rejoin Foxy.

Adrenaline-fueled heart beats pounded in Mike's ears as he watched Foxy climb back onto him. While most of her body was concealed by the darkness of the blanket, he caught bits here and there: a glimpse of her leg, a peek at her abdomen, etc. The sight alone would've been tantalizing enough to hold his attention as is, but with his jeans off every brush of fur against his thighs felt magnified tenfold. He could hear Foxy's heavy breaths, and that yet unnamed sweet scent had only grown stronger. It took a good amount of Mike's self-restraint to not just pull her to him again.

 _Fuck it_ , thought Foxy, her lips stretching into a nervous smirk. _Here goes nothin'_. She rolled her shoulders, letting the blanket slowly slide down her back. Inch by painfully slow inch, the shadows receded from her chest. More of her body became visible with each passing second...until the blanket got caught. Foxy tried multiple times to lose the blanket with little hops of her shoulders to no avail. Shakily huffing, she eventually just grabbed the stubborn thing and pulled it the rest of the way down. _Well fuck, that ruined it._

Mike however didn't seem to have noticed the slight mess up. Either that or he just didn't care. His mouth agape, he simply just _stared_ at Foxy's now visible chest. Or more particularly—the mounds protruding from it.

The unreadable expression on Mike's face made Foxy slightly uneasy at what the man might be thinking. She couldn't gauge his reaction whatsoever. While her strikingly _average_ size had served her well in boxing, Foxy had always felt a little jealous when thinking about the "sizable bosom" she had read about. Would Mike find her too small? Did they sag? Would he—

A loud moan left Foxy's mouth, her back arching at the sudden sensation. Within the matter of a second, Mike had gone from stunned and speechless to holding Foxy in both hands. Keeping his grip light, Mike slowly rolled her dark nubs with just the tips of his thumbs. Further reaction from Foxy was a bit delayed. Following her outcry she had sat breathlessly, the pure ecstasy she felt all at once being just too much to comprehend. After that brief moment passed, she let out a heavy breath. Then another.

Mike continued at a slightly quickened pace, gauging Foxy's reaction throughout. He tried speeding up some more, but found out from a just barely visible wince on Foxy's part that there was such a thing as _overdoing it_. So he slowed down. Eventually, Foxy recovered from the initial surprise at the move, but even then she did little to fire back. That was until Mike replaced one of his hands with his mouth. All at once, Foxy lost it.

" _God!_ " she groaned. With an animalistic growl, she pushed down onto him, unintentionally rubbing herself against his groin. Mike's quite vocal reaction, and the magnificent sensation it gave her through the thin clothing made a gear shift in Foxy's head. And for the heat in her loins, it was like pouring gasoline into a fire. _Perfect,_ she thought with a devious smirk.

She put considerably more thought into how she moved her hips from then on, keeping it at a slow, yet steady speed. Looking down at Mike, Foxy saw his teeth clenched with the effort to keep in any more outbursts. Foxy almost frowned. That just wouldn't do. Momentarily, she quickened the pace of her grinding and leaned in toward his ear. " _Please,_ Michael. Don't hold _anything_ back..." she purred, her breath warm against his skin. "Your reactions are sexy as hell." Foxy relented after that, but not without teasing him with a light nibble at his earlobe. Mike took a sharp intake of air. He held the breath in for a moment, then he shakily released it—his composure shifting just a bit in the process.

"Just... _fuck..._ " Mike groaned, nearly panting. He gulped, hands returning to their place on her ass. Foxy shuddered. While it wasn't the first time he had done that tonight, it still ran shivers up and down her spine. And once again—hearing him use such dirty language did well to push her inhibition even further down the drain.

Foxy continued to grind against the man for as long as she could bear it. Before long, however, the only article of clothing that remained—a pair of plain white panties—had become thoroughly soaked with her arousal. It was all that stood the task of separating the duo, and for all intents and purposes it may as well have not even been there at that point. Heavily breathing, Foxy halted in her motions. She glanced down at Mike. He looked back at Foxy, fixating her in a stare that seemed to all but sober the two adults.

They suddenly pulled each other into a tight embrace. Neither spoke a word at first, simply letting the racing beat of their hearts do all the speaking. Breathing became a rhythm. One exhaling as the other inhaled. For having been trapped in their cramped environment by a blizzard, Mike and Foxy still felt as the current circumstances could not have been better.

Eventually, it was Foxy that broke the comfortable silence. She rested her head on Mike's shoulder. "Do I even have to say it?" she asked quietly.

Mike chuckled. "I don't know. You seemed alright with making _me_ talk."

Although she couldn't _see_ his smirk, she could still feel its presence on his face. Pouting, Foxy said, "Come on, slugger...you're just bein' unfair now..."

"Just evening out the playing field."

 _I'll give ya' that one,_ Foxy thought.

"And uh..." Mike drifted off, sighing. _Probably the worst time to be asking this, now that I think about it._ "Foxy, are you... _sure_ about th—"

Foxy cut him off. "I'm damn sure," she stated, leaning back a few degrees so they were face-to-face. An unguarded expression remained on the man's face, so Foxy couldn't even fake looking slightly upset. She reached up and cupped Mike's cheek in her hand, lips turned upward into a smile. "I'm sure, Mike. I mean...shit, we've gone this far already," she reasoned, "why not go the whole mile?"

Anxiety fading, Mike spoke softer. "It's a big step."

"One I'm willin' to take with ya', Michael." Shifting her hook arm, Foxy glanced at the appendage out of habit, then back at him. "...as long as you're okay with it, too, of course."

Something clicked within Mike's head. He said nothing. Instead, he reached over and grasped the cuff of Foxy's hook. Its owner shifted in place, gasping in reaction to both the suddenness, and to the way she had accidentally rubbed him whilst moving. Eye contact never broken, Mike ducked his head and, as gentle as can be, planted a kiss on the curved metal. That was all the answer Foxy needed.

In the next instant she reached out her arms and supported herself on Mike's thighs, stretching out her legs to the floor. The blanket shifted along with her, uncovering Mike a bit, though he hardly noticed whatsoever. Foxy waited until she gained her balance, then looked down to Mike with a devious smirk. She made it a show—slowly bringing a hand to the side of her panties, then, inch-by-inch she slid them down the length of her firm legs. Nothing was visible yet from Mike's angle, but that all-too-familiar scent of strawberries suddenly intensified.

 _So_ that _'s what that is, then,_ Mike noted somewhere in the haze of his mind. He glanced up to see Foxy gulp, and he returned his gaze to the previous point of interest.

As the soaked clothing finally brushed against the fur of her ankles, Foxy managed with little difficulty to lift one leg out of them, then—a bit more awkwardly—the other. She let the panties fall to the floor.

With a shaky breath, she leaned back as much as she could to give Mike some space. "Your turn," Foxy growled, her eyes scanning him up and down expectantly.

A shudder ran down Mike's spine at her gaze. Even with how anxious part of him felt about finally going this far, another side of him was eager to get out of the boxers. A large part of that feeling came from just how tight they felt on him by now. So with little theatrics, Mike lifted himself just slightly off of the seat and in one motion he slid off his boxers. He couldn't believe how much better it felt the moment they came off.

Foxy nearly gawked at the sight of him. In her entire life so far, Foxy had never seen anything like it. Many of her books had gone into great detail describing the male characters and their members, but seeing one in person, and on _Mike_ especially...well, needless to say, Foxy felt her mouth water at the sight alone. She banished a thought from her head immediately. _Enough foreplay for tonight,_ Foxy told herself, swallowing. _Another night, maybe..._

As if controlled by another force entirely, Foxy crept back up onto Mike's lap. Her willpower alone was all that kept the vixen from immediately slamming herself down onto him and going to town. Foxy shook as she slowly, carefully lined her entrance up just right with Mike, who used one equally trembling hand to keep himself in place for her. The other hand held Foxy's hook.

The sensation of his tip brushing up against her nearly pushed Foxy past the edge. But she just barely held on, desperately biting her lip to the point of breaking skin. As much as she wanted to just go wild already, Foxy realized that you only get a first time wanted to make this special—a night to remember for the both of them—no matter how cliched and cheesy that may sound.

In a similar position, Mike felt some strange, animalistic urge to just start thrusting away, but with how much effort Foxy seemed to be putting into this, it felt wrong to just continue with reckless abandon. So he waited. Finally, after a second more, Foxy looked down at him, her yellow eyes glazed by lust. Mike raised a brow. She took a deep breath, then nodded. Mike sensed her put just slightly more weight down on the hand she held against his chest, and he swallowed. Foxy began lowering herself onto him.

An involuntary gasp overtook Mike's mouth as Foxy gradually took in more and more of his length. He supposed he shouldn't have been surprised considering she was a virgin, but goddamn was she tight (at least that's how he _thought_ it worked anyway). Her walls felt like a vice grip, clamping down even tighter around him each time she tensed. Thankfully though, their foreplay seemed to have paid off, and Foxy's juices acted as the perfect lubricant. Each gained inch was pure bliss to the both of them. A second later and Foxy had finally taken him all in—fur grazing skin.

Mike's free hand had moved to be holding Foxy's waist, where he gently squeezed. " _Fuck_..." he moaned, taking heavy breaths. The smell of musky arousal and sweat filled the confined space of the car. Eventually, Mike unclenched his eyes to see her already staring at him with half-lidded eyes. A shaky giggle left her mouth.

"I've told ya' I love...love it when you talk like _that_. Right, Michael...?" asked Foxy, sounding like she was really struggling to manage words. She squeezed the hand on his shoulder as if to remind herself that this was really happening.

Mike could only nod himself at first. Then, his voice just barely audible through breaths, he asked, "You...okay?"

"Yeah," Foxy replied, "I thought it'd be...worse, honestly." She swallowed, then snickered a bit. "More painful, I mean..."

A moment of loving silence passed between the two of them. Both seemed content with just holding each other for a second, until Mike moved his hand down from her waist.

"...ready to continue?"

Foxy gave Mike another half-lidded smirk, and he replied by playfully slapping her ass. A growl left Foxy's mouth and she aggressively pulled him into another liplock. Meanwhile she lifted herself back up, slowly relinquishing her hold on the man just up until the head of his cock, then she slammed back down on him. She couldn't help but moan into his mouth at how amazing it felt. When Foxy pulled herself up again after that, she forgot to be mindful about the low space, and ended up bumping her head on the roof.

She both heard and felt Mike chuckle. Without pulling away, Foxy countered by gently biting on his lower lip. That little incident was quickly forgotten, however, as they continued getting lost in passion. Slowly but surely, a steady rhythm built up in their movements, and if anybody had been on the outside of that vehicle during the next period of time, they would have been able to easily hear Foxy's pleasured screams over the howling storm.

* * *

 **And...done. Finally finished this chapter. Way too long of a delay, I know. First time writing anything like...well,** _ **this**_ **, so I'm sure it could be improved. Put my all into this one, though, and I hope it shows.**

 **Anyway, I figured I'd leave you guys on this note before going into a temporary hiatus with this story. As much as I enjoy writing this story, I feel like I've been running myself dry with just writing this one thing alone. Never been good at writing multiple things at once. So I've decided that rather than let this story—and by extension, YOU, the readers—suffer, I'm gonna just let it sit while I try and explore some of the** _ **other**_ **ideas I've been having running around in my head. Some of these ideas will show up on here for sure, but I think one of them I might try to take into the publishing game.**

 **So yeah! Once again I'd like to thank you guys for coming along with me for this ride. I wouldn't still be on this site if it wasn't for your feedback, or the knowledge that people are still reading this.**

 **With love,  
** **~Zach**


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